Dreamwalk Blue
by Viola
Summary: In which we find important dreams, Albus Dumbledore: Ladies' Man, & a young Tom Riddle doing the Lindy Hop.
1. What the Thunder Said

DREAMWALK BLUE -- PROLOGUE  


Summary: In which we find important dreams, post-modern poetry, Albus Dumbledore: Ladies' Man, and a young Tom Riddle doing the Lindy Hop.

  
PROLOGUE -- WHAT THE THUNDER SAID  


Say nighty-night and kiss me  
Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me  
While I'm alone and blue as can be   
Dream a little a dream of me  


(from _dream a little dream_) 

The familiar, unknown landscape of a dream stretched before him.  


He thought he recognized this place, but, as is so often with dreams, knowledge slipped like water, shimmered like mirage and became something entirely else.  


He was at the shore of a lake, barefoot, his toes digging into earth much younger than that he trod everyday. Winter was at an end here and newborn spring struggled, pushing green shoots through the thawing ground and up into the dawn air. He had the sense that there were other people nearby, but he could see no sign of them. The trees were quiet, mist hung low against the very green, young grass. The valley was hushed as a cathedral, the trees overhead like the arched ceiling, the light reflecting on the water of the lake like stained glass.  


"There you are. I'd expected you sooner." A woman, dark-haired and also barefoot, laid her hand on his arm, pulling his attention back from the lake. She was very beautiful but grave. "Come now. Follow me."  


He did.  


They walked to a stand of rowans shrouded in early morning mist. The remnants of a fire were dashed about the ground. A scent, sickly sweet like myrrh, hung on the air.  


"You know what to do with this, don't you?" She laid a heavy book in his hands.  


And he did.  


"Yes, but now? I was sure it would not be now," he said, conscious somehow that when he woke this certainty, this knowing would be gone.  


"Yes. Now. It starts with you. It will end with others. But you knew that. The book told you that."  


"This book has told me nothing yet." He looked down at its leather face in his hands, and in the deepest corner of his mind something awoke. He turned the book, feeling for the edge in his imagination. With a click like the turning of a lock, felt rather than heard, it opened carefully.  


"It has told you. You've merely forgotten." Her voice seemed suddenly as though she spoke from a great height.  


And then he was falling.  


He fell through a thousand landscapes at once. Flashes of light, snatches of sound and pictures so fast they seemed to stand still assaulted his eyes with the disjointed unreality of the dying and the very young. He saw impossible things for which he had no name. He reached out and grabbed hold of one. A thin tendril of smoke, an idea of a place and time that stayed with him and set him on his feet. He stood then in a valley surrounded by scorched, desolate hills, looking like desert dunes against the moon.  


_"Surely some revelation is at hand" _  


The book was gone. Or, rather, the book was in his head.  


_"Somewhere in the sands of the desert / A shape with lion body and the head of a man / A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun"_  


Or he was in the book's.  


_"That twenty centuries of stony sleep / were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle"_  


A warning, then. Something that would come to pass.  


_"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last / Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"_  


But he didn't understand.   


"You do understand." The woman was with him again. Her hair gleaming like obsidian under the pale moonlight, her skin washed in the light from distant stars. "I told you, you have only forgotten. But you will remember." She put a hand on his arm. "Now wake up. They need you."  


And the dream was gone.  


It was June 13, 1943. In London a cathedral was burning -- ash like macabre snowflakes in the summer air. Elsewhere rivers ran with unholy salt. A starving child whimpered into the deaf night, coddled by a hollow-eyed skeleton. Across two oceans a young woman held the bloodied hand of a dying soldier. Men met in a secret desert, splitting the stuff of creation asunder with naïve abandon. Prim, nimble-fingered girls with clean hair untangled hidden secrets like carding wool, while quiet men mumbled radio salvation in the language of the mesa. It was a world pretending sleep, the darkness heavy with countless held breaths. Close at hand, surrounded by darkened copper, something foul and poisonous slithered its impatient way toward abandoned rest.   


And in the shadow of summer nighttime, Albus Dumbledore woke up.  



	2. Night Falling

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER ONE   


Summary: London, 1943 -- A pair of saucy, bar-hopping wizards, Albus Dumbledore runs with a flash crowd and Tom Riddle does the Lindy Hop. Seriously. 

CHAPTER ONE -- NIGHT FALLING  


late, late in the evening i will still be there  
look up  
the sky above is blue and empty  
the air is still warm tonight  
one by one the street lamps  
are clicking on until the entire city is a-glow and on the  
second floor in a red brick building that used to be a bank  
horns sound a melody  


(from _night, falling -- jazz for long evenings_ )  


  
London, 1943  


June Lisbon, it was unconsciously and unanimously agreed, was a force of nature. It was a Friday afternoon in July, and June was holding a horde of rapacious reporters at bay again.  


"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your interest, but the Minister has nothing to say at the moment regarding this matter. He would, however, like to extend to you all his invitation to Monday's reception for the Society for Widows and Orphans."  


Two Ministry Hit Wizards flanked June on the steps of the decaying stone Ministry building. They were fondly handling their wands, as though they'd like nothing more than to curse the crowd of journalists into oblivion. June could sympathize.  


A female reporter waved her quill at June.   


_Where do they all come from? _June thought. There was only one real paper to speak of in all of wizard Britain  


The woman waggled her gaudy quill violently, until June had no choice but to acknowledge her for fear someone might lose an eye. "Does the Minister deny that the strife in the Muggle world is beginning to affect wizarding society? This is the second such occurrence in a fortnight"  


June shook her head. "I'm sorry. At this time, the Ministry has no public statement regarding the Muggle war. But rest assured, we have the best resources available attending to the problem." As soon as she finished speaking, the crowd erupted again, the reporters shouting themselves hoarse to be heard above the din.  


"Are the recent murders in Albania related to the war? Is there any truth to the rumor that they were killed by Muggle spies?"  


"Has the Minister promised the Muggle prime minister any aid in the war effort?"  


"What does the Ministry plan to do? The people have a right to protection"  


June rocked back on her heels. She spoke to the Hit Wizards without turning her head or visibly moving her mouth. "All right, boys. Do your thing."  


The one on the right looked questioningly at her and hefted his wand.  


"Not _that_ thing -- as much as we all might want to. No, no. Make sure they're all cleared out of here before the Minister leaves for Prince Edward." 

The flash of a camera left June momentarily blinded. "Go on then. We all want to get out of here this afternoon."  


The Hit Wizards moved into the crowd.  


June smiled pleasantly. "Thank you all for coming, ladies and gentlemen." The Hit Wizards moved among the reporters encouraging them firmly to go.  


"Hey! What's the idea?"  


"Brother. Ouch! My paper has lawyers, you know"  


"Fascists!" spat one of the members of the independent press.  


Once the steps were cleared, June stumbled wearily down to the Italian marble fountain in the center of the courtyard and sat on the edge, fumbling for a cigarette. The taller Hit Wizard, John Fletcher, conjured a blue flame with his wand and lit it for her.  


"Thanks," she said, inhaling and leaning back. "You two going with the Minister this weekend?" The pair nodded glumly. She shook her head. 

"Short straw, eh? Sorry to hear it. Glad I'm not going this time, though."  


"Fletcher! Alexander!" came a clipped, authoritative voice. "We're ready for you." It was Theodore Cousins, the Minister's personal secretary. The two jumped up and scurried up the steps to help the Minister out to the sleek, black Ministry car.  


Moments later June was leaning down, her blonde head framed by a car window, gently imploring her boss, Minister of Magic Milton Bulfinch, to please not talk to anyone about any Ministry matters even in Canada.  


The car slid away. June let her cigarette fall to the pavement and stamped it out with a square, red toe.  


***  


Later that evening, June climbed out of a luxuriously long bath to find that the only major decisions before her that night were where to go, what to wear and who to be seen with while doing the former. She pondered this, relishing in the simplicity of it, as she pinned up her hair. June wrapped herself in a silk kimono embroidered with bluebirds and sakura sprays. She mixed a cocktail and curled up in a large chair next to the wireless, Bessie Smith belting out the blues while June lacquered her toenails with slick, crimson polish.  


Her head popped up at a knock on the door.  


"Who is it?" She sipped casually at her iced bourbon and bitters, not bothering to get up and open the door.  


"Hayden, gorgeous. Open up," came the lazy reply.  


"Open it yourself, you rake." The door swung inward, revealing Hayden Fairborne. Lean, handsome and impeccably dressed, Hayden leaned languidly against the doorjamb and hit her with the full force of his infamous, lopsided smile.  


She just barely looked up from her toes. "Oh, now. You know that doesn't work on me. Get in here and close that door. There's a draft."  


He complied and headed immediately for the miniature bar in the corner. "So, darling." He poured himself a healthy amount of gin and the barest splash of tonic. "Where are we off to tonight?"  


"We?" June raised a flawlessly plucked and penciled eyebrow at him. "The last time I took you to a party, Hayden darling, you disappeared with the Minister's daughter and I had to spend the entire evening lying shamelessly to him to cover your indiscretions."  


Hayden sprawled in a chair across from her and withdrew a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. "Really, June, isn't lying to the Minister your job?"  


"That," she laughed haughtily, "is quite beside the point. While I lie to the Minister -- and the public at large as well, mind -- on a daily basis, it is to benefit my own career. Not to save some pampered -- although devastatingly handsome -- scoundrel from finally getting exactly what he deserves at the hands of a jealous father." She accepted a cigarette from him.  


He leaned forward to light their cigarettes with an engraved silver lighter, a carefully calculated affectation. "Don't you mean 'protective,' darling? Protective father, jealous husband."  


"While you've no doubt had experience of both, I do in this case mean 'jealous father.' I shall be supremely lucky if the _Daily Prophet_ never gets hold of that little gem of a story," she said, bringing the cigarette to her painted lips.  


"How deliciously tawdry" Hayden grinned, taking a slow, languorous drag on his smoke. He splayed his arms along the sides of his chair, long-limbed thoroughbred that he was, cigarette in the right hand, sweating glass in the other.  


"Perhaps -- if you promise your best behavior, of course -- we'll go to Lulu's." She stamped the spent cigarette out in a shell-shaped ashtray. "There's quite an interesting crowd there, so they say."  


"I'll say," Hayden smirked. "Just the other day your favorite publication ran an intriguing series of articles denouncing dear Lulu, along with the proprietors of several other such establishments. How did they put it exactly? Ah, yes. 'Eroding the sense of cultural pride and wizard values in the younger generation.' They were shocked Shocked, mind you, darling to discover that these so-called nightclubs were actually dens of Muggle music and dancing. And, even more shocking and disturbing," he pulled a face of mock-concern, "was the fact that many of the young people frequenting these establishments have taken to wearing Muggle clothing."   


He sat up. "It will, I fear, be the downfall of our proud society and its flawless sense of moral direction." He shook his head, brushing the wrinkles out of his Beau Brummel suit.  


"So," June rolled her eyes, "Lulu's then?"  


"Why, of course." He did the lopsided smile again. "Now get dressed or I shall have to drag you there naked and give the _Prophet_ something to really write about: 'Press Advisor Caught Dancing Nude To Morally Decadent Music.' It's a bit long, but quite a headline. And they do so love working in the word 'nude' on the front page." He slugged back the remainder of his drink. "It would be a shame for your career, though, darling."  


"On the contrary," June smirked, displaying her silk-clad figure to him for good effect, "it might get me appointed Minister of Magic."  


***  


As they approached the narrow stairway leading up to Lulu's, June caught the first strains of passably covered Duke Ellington. Her arm linked through Hayden's, she scanned the faces coming up and down the stairs. Mostly young people, but there were more than a few A-list types lurking about.  


Not too long ago Lulu's had been a struggling restaurant called Ambrosia. The food, unfortunately, had not been ambrosia and the owners, with creditors, vendors and goblins at the gate, sold the lion's share of the business to Lulu DuPree, a flash, brassy dame from Chicago with oceans of ill-gotten wealth. Lulu covered the debts and pulled the place back from the brink on one condition: that she be allowed to run things her way. Lulu's way included sacking the kitchen staff, building a dance floor, buying freighters full of every liquor imaginable and hiring Dack Bennett and his Magical Band. With a splashy re-opening, picketing parents and miles of bad press from the_ Prophet_, Lulu's flourished.   


It was the daring, smart place to be in all of wizard London in 1943. The crowd reflected Lulu's wide appeal. Teenagers, the young elite, the up-and-comers all dressed to the Muggle nines in flashy suits and jewel-toned cocktail dresses. It was astounding. No wonder the _Daily Prophet _condemned it so roundly.  


On Hayden's dashing arm, June couldn't suppress a smile. She waved and greeted several people she knew (and a few she didn't but who obviously knew her). Upstairs, they entered the ballroom, the dancing already in high-gear. From a quiet corner of the club, a tall, auburn-haired man in cobalt robes waved to June. He looked terribly out of place. June waved back, very surprised to see him of all people at Lulu's.   


"Who is that, June?" Hayden asked, looking the man over incredulously. "Surely you don't know him?"  


June ignored him, letting go of his arm and moving forward to greet the other man. "Albus!" She found herself ensnared by a pair of long, gangly arms.  


"Hello, June." Albus Dumbledore smiled down at her, the smile lighting up his intelligent blue eyes.  


She pulled away from his embrace. "What on earth are you doing here? I thought the hallowed halls of academia had swallowed you permanently."  


"Ah, yes. I am a bit of a fish on a bicycle here, aren't I?"   


Someone cleared his throat significantly behind her. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry." She grabbed Hayden's arm and pulled him forward. "Hayden Fairborne, this is Albus Dumbledore. Albus and I grew up together."  


Albus extended a hand in greeting. "Pleased to meet you, Hayden."  


"Albus is a terribly renowned professor." She looked up at Hayden. "Which is why I'm so surprised to see him out wasting time socializing rather than in some library surrounded by stacks of dusty books."  


"I'm sure," Hayden said coolly.  


"Do you work with June at the Ministry?" Albus asked, attempting to make conversation.  


"No," Hayden replied, off-handedly. "I'm fantastically wealthy, actually. So I spend most of my time playing tennis, going to smart parties and trying to convince June here to enter into a loveless but excruciatingly fashionable marriage with me."  


Albus just smiled. Hayden seemed to decide that baiting Albus wasn't any fun and scuttled off to collect some drinks.  


"Aberforth is here, June. Actually he's the reason I'm here. I expect he'll be excited to see you." Albus, for his part, looked not only happy to see her, but also terribly relieved.   


She smiled sympathetically. "This really isn't your sort of place, is it?"  


He shook his head. "No. But it is yours, June. When you walked through that door every head in the room turned."  


She tried to control the flush rising beneath her carefully applied make-up. "Albus, really. You flatter me shamelessly."  


"I only tell the truth." He pulled a chair out for her at his table.   


Hayden returned with drinks for himself and June. "Here you are, June darling. This is where we're sitting, is it? I ran into Ares and Lucinda Malfoy. They asked us to join them"  


"Really, Hayden. There's plenty of time to be horrid snobs later." She sipped her drink and smiled at Albus. "Right now I want to catch up with an old friend."  


Hayden looked sulky but sat down. His spirits greatly improved, however, when smartly dressed Aberforth Dumbledore ambled up surrounded by a group of attractive young women.  


"June!" Aberforth was Albus' older brother -- dandy-ish, handsome and rather dim. June had always found him desperately dull, but she smiled and took his hand.  


"So, June, how long until they put you in charge of everything over at the Ministry?" Aberforth winked at her.  
"I much prefer running things from the shadows, Aberforth." She winked back.  


Several of Aberforth's groupies were eyeing Hayden.  


"Oh, go dance, Hayden. You're giving me a headache." She waved him off toward the brightly-clad girls, who tittered like a net full of butterflies as he offered his arms to them.  


"Now, tell me," she said when they were at last left alone. "How are things, really?"  


Albus sighed, and for the first time she noticed the shadows under his eyes and the strain around his mouth. "A bit difficult, actually. I've stumbled on to something- Well, this really isn't the place to talk about it. But I've been rather worried."  


"Academic rivalries and poison pens, is that it?" June patted his hand.  


"I'm afraid it's a bit more than that. Or possibly not. Perhaps I'm just making too much of this because of the times."  


"They are a bit worrisome, aren't they? So much uncertainty." She shook her head.  


"Exactly. And my fear is that things will only get worse for us." He looked down, swishing his wine around its glass.  


"Harder than now? Albus, really. There's a war on, you know. How could things get all that much worse?"  


He sighed. "We aren't really that touched by this war. But I'm afraid we'll have our own problems sooner-"  


"Professor!" a bright female voice exclaimed from behind them.  


They turned. A boy and girl were standing there holding hands. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen, the girl probably younger.  


"This is the last place I would have expected to see you." For all her youth, she was exceptionally attractive. Her dark hair was pinned up and her eyes were such a deep shade of blue they seemed almost black.  


"Hello, Professor." The boy looked as though he wished he were anywhere else.  


Albus seemed surprised. "Tom. Metis. How nice to see you. Please sit."  


"Metis" The boy tugged on her hand.  


"Honestly, Tom. Don't be silly. It's not as though we're at school." She sat, pulling him with her.  


They looked more like siblings than lovers, both dark-haired, dark-eyed and fair. But the boy was gazing at the girl with a quiet kind of passionate intensity, the sort described in aching detail in cheap, poorly-written novels. Novels in which the doomed lovers usually ended up drinking poison or murdered by a jealous suitor. The girl noticed his attention and her face lit with an equally clichéd radiance. June's first impulse was to laugh, but something in the boy's expression warned her that this young man wouldn't tolerate that kind of disrespect.  


Albus turned to June. "Tom, Metis, this is my friend June Lisbon." Metis smiled. "And, June, these are two of my best students - Metis McGonagall and Tom Riddle."  


"So pleased to meet you." June smiled pleasantly and extended a hand to them both.  


"Likewise," Tom said, speaking with a maturity and politeness that belied his age. "You work for the Minister of Magic, don't you?"  


June was surprised he'd recognized her. "Yes, I do as a matter of fact."  


"What are you two doing in London?" Albus asked. "Tom, I thought you were staying at school this summer."  


"I am, Professor." Tom seemed uncomfortable with the subject.   


Metis stepped in smoothly and deflected the unwanted attention away from him. "We're visiting my aunt, Professor. It's been simply ages since I'd been to London and Hogsmeade is so dull in the summer."  


"Surely you're staying out of Muggle London, with the threat of bombing and all." June found herself uncharacteristically concerned for this pair of kids wandering around London by themselves.   


"Of course," Metis assured her. Tom relaxed, letting his hand drop onto Metis' shoulder.  


Watching them, June was struck again by the aura around them. It was almost as if they were yin and yang. She exuded light and vibrancy, he absorbed it.  


The music slowed, and Tom said, "Perhaps we should dance, Metis. That is what we came for after all."  


June could tell he simply wanted to get away from his teacher, and who could blame him really? When she'd been a teenager, the last people she would have wanted to run into on holiday were her professors.  


Tom bid them farewell and led Metis away onto the dance floor. June found herself continuing to watch them. She noticed that the boy wore all black, the girl a dress of watered indigo silk. When they danced they clung to one another, as though they'd drown if they let go.  


"They have that effect on people, don't they?"  


With an effort, June pulled her attention back to Albus. "Hmm?"  


He leaned in to speak softly to her. "I said, those two have that effect on people. People watch them, are interested in their lives. They are, needless to say, rather popular with their peers. In an odd way though"  


Just how the two were odd, June didn't get to hear. Hayden returned from frustrating the all the available girls and collapsed into the nearest chair.  


"Oh, June darling, I'm bored. It's not even a challenge anymore. These silly, childish women Say, who is that?" He was looking at Metis. Tom had left her standing by herself for a moment. Hayden looked her over with a characteristic appreciation. "Now that would be a challenge."  


"Yes. Especially as she's fifteen years younger than you are, and her parents would likely have you clapped in irons first." June idly watched the ice cubes in her drink slide companionably against one another, melting into each other, slipping against the slick, cold bourbon, struggling to remain upright. After a moment, she looked up and followed Hayden's gaze.  


Tom disentangled himself from the two young men who'd come up to speak with him and returned to Metis. As he crossed the dance floor, he noticed Hayden's rather blatant attention. June wouldn't have thought such a young and handsome face as Tom's could hold such anger. Visibly upset he walked quickly back to Metis, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her from their sight.   


***  


Something dripped onto the rain-slicked London pavement outside Lulu's at regular intervals, echoing weirdly around the narrow alleyway. Lights from the surrounding buildings reflected an oil-spill rainbow against the wet street. People walked unconcernedly past -- laughing, talking partygoers oblivious to the sirens that cut the night elsewhere in London. And in the blue-tinged shadows of the alley a minor drama was unfolding.  


"Tom, please wait. We shouldn't. Not here," a soft, pleading female voice was saying.  


"Don't, Metis. Just don't," the boy snapped in reply.  


"We'll get caught. I just know we will. We've been far too careless." And then she stifled a cry.  


Deep in shadow, behind discarded packing crates and carelessly emptied rubbish containers, Tom Riddle pinned Metis McGonagall up against the damp bricks that housed Lulu's. He bent his face close to hers and said in his habitual undertone, "We will not get caught. We never have before and we won't now." A brief expression of annoyance crossed his face. "It's ridiculous. Those sort of rules shouldn't even apply to people like us, Metis."  


She reached up and stroked his face. She had a gift for soothing him, taming him, protecting him with a simple word or touch. "It's not far to my aunt's. We can walk. There's no sense in it."  


He shoved her hand away from his cheek. There was no reasoning with him in these moods, even for her. "We are going _home_, Metis. Now. You can owl your aunt from there. I doubt she'll even miss us 'til morning."  


Her eyes widened, her damp eyelashes like charcoal smudges against her fair skin. "Tom"  


He leaned against her, pressing her more tightly against the brick. "I didn't want to come in the first place. I did for you, Metis. For you." He kissed her with none of the awkwardness one would expect from a teenage boy. Her breath hitched and she grabbed hold of his slender arms. "And now," he said, releasing her, "I want to leave."  


She was beaten and he knew it. She looked at him, her eyes liquid, unshed tears of passion and frustration in the movement of her chest.   


He stepped away from her, taking care to remain in shadow. "Come here." He extended a hand to her. "You don't have to do it. I will. I can handle us both."  


She pushed away from the wall and came to him. He pulled her close, enfolding her in his arms. Her head pillowed on his chest, she could feel the warmth of his breath, taste the familiar scent of him. It made her ache.  


"Stay with me tonight," he whispered. "Your mother doesn't expect you. There won't be anyone left at the school."  


"All right," she said, and abruptly they Disapparated.  
  
***  


June woke the next morning with a buzzing headache. She rolled over and clamped a round, silk pillow over her head to stop the room spinning. Lying there unsure whether to get up or go back to sleep, the night before came back to her.  


After their strange encounter with Albus' students (or perhaps their encounter with Albus' strange students?), the two of them talked quietly about familiar places and mutual friends. Hayden, put out at being ignored, chatted up a brassy blonde reporter from the _Prophet_ just to annoy June. Five Manhattans and one harrowing Lindy Hop with Hayden later, she'd decided to call it a night. As they prepared to leave, Albus, looking tired, had pulled her aside and made her promise to come to dinner Sunday.   


Dinner with the Dumbledores. Her mother would be ecstatic.  


Deciding sleep was out of the question, June rose and flung on her kimono. She walked into the small but elegantly appointed living room to find a very rumpled Hayden passed out in the same chair he'd occupied the previous night. His tie was askew, his mouth open and an extinguished cigarette dangled from one hand.  


She poked him with an experimental finger.  


He stirred but didn't open his eyes. "Mater?" Hayden mumbled sleepily.  


June rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen. She put the kettle on and set to making eggs. She dumped a vial of headache tonic into a glass of club soda and gulped it down. The pounding around her temples eased. She lit a cigarette and fished her wand out from behind a bottle of cooking sherry, then pointed it at the eggs on the stove. Feeling a bit better, she ventured out to the bar and mixed up twin Bloody Marys.   


She was spooning the eggs onto two plates and starting on a second cigarette when a voice from the doorway drawled, "I say, if one of those drinks is for me you're my sort of ministering angel, darling."  


"Good morning, Hayden. And how did you find my chair last night?"  


He crossed to the counter and picked up the Bloody Mary gratefully. "Infinitely better than the back seat of a taxi, which is where I would have slept had I attempted to leave here."  


June laughed and, balancing her plate, drink and cigarette, ambled back out into the living room and promptly nearly dropped the plate onto her brand-new alpaca rug.  


"Mother?" June gasped.   


Rhea Lisbon, or rather her head, regarded her daughter from the fireplace. "Good morning, June dear."   


Hayden emerged from the kitchen, nearly colliding with June.  


Her mother craned her neck. "Good Lord, June! Is that a man?"  


"It's just Hayden, Mother." To which Hayden mumbled something rather rude.  


"Still the suggestion of impropriety, dear" She trailed off, looking worried.  


"Really, Mother. I know things about our duly elected officials that would positively curl your hair." June settled onto the settee, balancing her plate on her knees.  


Rhea looked reproachful. "I'm sure, dear. You forget I've been married to your father for thirty years. I know a thing or two myself."  


"Of course, Mother. Now, what could possibly be so important this early on a Saturday?" She took a long drag on her cigarette.  


"Well, for one, I wish you wouldn't smoke those dreadful things" June shrugged, and her mother continued undaunted, "For another, I've had an owl from Ariadne this morning. She tells me young Albus invited you to Sunday dinner."  


"Yes, Mother." June should have known. Her mother had been angling for a Lisbon-Dumbledore match since June had been about six. "Which brother would you have me vamp? Albus or Aberforth? They're both well placed socially, handsome and obscenely wealthy. Although, Aberforth's not quite right in the head"  


"Really," Rhea snapped. "Would it hurt you to think of your family for once? You're our only daughter"  


"and your father and I only want you to be happy." June finished for her. "Honestly, Mother, I'm only twenty-five. The way you talk you'd think I was a toothless hag."  


"Some of my nicest aunts are toothless hags" Hayden began, but stopped at a fierce look from June.  


"Don't think I don't see the way the younger boy looks at you, June." Rhea looked ready to climb out of the fireplace and shake her finger at her daughter. "Don't play with that boy's affections. It will come back to bite you, mark my words."  


"Mother," June said, her headache beginning to come back. "I've had a very long week. I promise to owl you the very moment Albus proposes, should it ever happen. Can we leave it there?"  


Rhea did not look placated but said, "You're going out to the country house, I assume? Ariadne didn't say."  


"Yes, Mother. I'm going to Sussex."  


"Then for heaven's sake, wear some suitable clothes. And try not to smoke any of those foul cigarettes," she snapped and disappeared from the fire.  


"Going to Sussex with Mr. Professor, are we?" Hayden grumped. "Well, perhaps your dear Mater has less to worry about than she"  


"Do shut up, Hayden," June snapped and flung her cigarette viciously into the fire.  


***  


Sunlight filtered through the arched stained glass windows in the study that once belonged to his father. Shelves of gold-stamped books with bent and broken spines lined the room, stretching toward the high, domed ceiling. Naiads and dryads chased one another laughingly across the dome's age-cracked mural. Artemis glared sulkily down at him, clutching her quiver and bow, one hand stroking the head of a restless stag. Richly varnished golden wood and polished brass lined the room and its surfaces. It was a room of colored glass and gleaming metal, lit by shuttered lamps, filled with rare and interesting objects. But for all its outward beauty, it was an austere place, cold and ordered. The study was uncharted territory, hostile, as though, even after more than a year, the room still considered him an intruder. The chairs refused to allow him comfort, pages of books stuck together denying him their secrets. He felt guilty and clumsy as he had as a boy, sneaking into this room to marvel at his father's hidden wonders and grown-up mysteries.   


Albus leaned forward, burying his face in ink-stained hands. Quills and inkbottles, sheets of parchment lay scattered on the mahogany desk. Next to his elbow, a large book, bound in ancient leather and brass, rested open to a time-yellowed page written in a studied hand.  


Sighing, he stood. He would get no more accomplished tonight. He crossed to the far wall. Tall, slender windows, delicate panes of colored glass set in molded iron, opened onto the western lawn. Albus pushed one open, resting his hand on the brass telescope that stood beside it. It stood ready to glimpse snatches of the far-off heavens as soon as the sun set. Albus wondered what the stars would say tonight if he knew how to read them. That also had been his father's domain. Albus thought it fitting and ironic that he should always imagine the heavens as belonging solely to his father.   


Shaking those thoughts away, he found himself reliving the end of last term and the events that had brought him home, to this room he'd avoided, to the one place he could hope to find some solitude. It had started with a dream. Or, rather, his waking from a dream  


A knock, like a roll of thunder in the heavy, summer twilight, shook the door. It had not woken him. He'd already emerged from the dream, expectant; knowing someone would be there. He rolled out of bed, flinging a light robe over his shoulders and tripping across the stone floor in the half-light.  


The knock repeated as he reached the door. "Albus? Albus! Wake up," came an impatient voice from the corridor.  


Half-blinded by the light from the hallway, Albus squinted at Ed Halley, the rumpled, young Astronomy professor.  


"Well, come on then," the younger man said. He, too, was wearing a robe and slippers and looked as though he'd been roused from a sound sleep. "Dippet wants us all in the staff room. No doubt something else horrible has happened"  


Following Halley down the deserted corridor, though, Albus didn't think so.   


When they reached the staff room, he saw that the rest of the faculty had already assembled. Dippet appeared both troubled and triumphant in turns, as though he weren't yet sure what to make of the night's events.  


"Well, it's over," the headmaster sighed. "We know who opened the Chamber, who is responsible for the death of that poor girl. Although, I doubt it's what any of us expected."  


Albus should have been shocked and relieved, instead he only half-listened to the headmaster explaining how Rubeus Hagrid, a third year, must have accidentally opened the Chamber and set the monster loose. Dippet, of course, had every confidence that it was an unfortunate accident. However, it went without saying that the poor boy had to be expelled. There was nothing else for it.  


"It needn't be said, of course," Dippet continued. "That the existence of the Chamber does not prove that the legends of Salazar Slytherin's heir have any validity. In fact, I believe it wiser that none of this should ever leave this room. And, in that vein" He gestured to Harrison, the deputy headmaster, who opened the far door and beckoned someone in. "Tom. Thank you for waiting."  


He looked around at his assembled staff, placing a fatherly hand on a strained-looking Tom Riddle's shoulder. "Tom, displaying great courage, is the one who found poor Rubeus and tried to convince him to come to me. When the boy refused, Tom came himself."  


Tom looked miserable. "Really, sir. I don't" he began.  


"Now, Tom. This is very serious. What you did was quite brave, and you will be rewarded accordingly. But we need your promise that you will never speak of what happened tonight."  


Many of the other faculty members were nodding in agreement. Albus understood; the school had very nearly been closed, but he didn't agree.  


Tom nodded slowly, as if reluctant give his word. "Yes, sir," he said, finally in an odd voice. "Of course, I promise."  


"Well. That's settled, then. This was all a tragic, regrettable mistake. But it is at an end." Dippet clapped the ashen-faced boy on the shoulder again. "There is no Heir of Slytherin."  
  
***  


The light, golden and inviting, called to her like siren song. It lured her, enticing her to bask, tempting her to come just a bit nearer. Beckoning, hazy light just beyond her reach in the chilly night shadows, so close it made her gut ache. She imagined she could taste it: caramel, champagne, and nectar. Deep, honey kisses drizzling lazily on her tongue and down into her belly. She could reach it. Closer Metis strained toward the light, ignoring the strangeness in her limbs, the alien senses tingling through unfamiliar nerves. She trembled, thrills of excitement and need shivering through her with equal force, like an addict scenting the cloying aroma of burning opium. Almost there. Closer She could just touch it  


Ouch.  


Metis sprang back, knocking into something solid, something metallic. She spun, glimpsing her reflection in the scorched, smoky metal. A moth, doe-colored and tawny with pleasing sienna markings, spread its wings and twitched feathery antennae at her from the makeshift mirror. It was not the first time she'd dreamed herself to be someone else, something else. As in those other dreams, it seemed perfectly natural. She accepted her new body without question.  


Beating her tiny wings, she tried to escape the shutters of the gas lamp that held her trapped. Her human sense wanting to distance itself from the danger of burning, her moth sense ready to fling itself wholesale into the oblivion of light and heat.  


_Like slipping into a warm bath_, the moth said seductively. But Metis' sense of herself remained strong, and in the end the girl triumphed over the moth. She fluttered away from the gaslight to find herself in the dusky twilight of a London street. A man and a woman stood in the pool of imperfect, golden light cast by Metis' lamp. The woman was exceptionally beautiful, dark-eyed and fair skinned; her coal-black hair fixed up in an outdated style. She was smiling and holding the man's hand. Metis looked at the man, and caught her breath.  


_Tom?_ It was Tom, and yet wasn't. Tall, slender, dark-haired and handsome just as her Tom was and, yet, with something missing. Something without which Tom would not be Tom. It was his aura of electricity, the sense of barely contained wild power that both excited and frightened her. This man had no such rawness. He was calm, collected, contented and ever-so sure.   


But then, Metis started as the woman called her companion by name.  


"Tom," she laughed, gently chastising him for some silly joke. She laid her hand familiarly on his lapel, smiling and shaking her head in spite of herself.  


Was this is a future then? Was that man indeed Tom, an older, tamer, domesticated Tom? She looked down at the beautiful woman, abruptly heartsick. She could not imagine a world in which Tom loved someone else. Their connection was shattering, consuming, unbearable. He was half of her; they fit together like pieces in a puzzle. Were he to stop loving her, she would be dashed and broken, left in tatters. Or was this then, perhaps, a past? The thought soothed her, although she rarely dreamed the past. She forced herself to be calm, looking around at the street, the cars, the buildings in turn. This was not a present or future London. It was London as it had appeared twenty years ago.  


The dream setting shimmered and changed. Metis rode the current of time like a jet. She came to rest on the bare, splayed branch of a leafless shrub. The garden of a country house, grey with early winter frost, lay decaying beneath a cold, silver moon. The woman was there again -- this time with her hair down and wearing a white dress. Unchecked tears spilled down her rouged cheeks, as she raised a hand to wipe them away a large, well-cut diamond caught the brittle moonlight. The aristocratic man with Tom's face stood in a wedge of light that spilled from a half-open French door, anger and betrayal twisting his handsome features making them nearly unrecognizable.  


Her dream shifted again like sand underfoot. Leaves budding and dying, the planet spinning, stars changing their position in the sky as if the earth were marching at double-time. The house stood unchanged, though the garden was now in the full flush of summer.  


A shadowed figure walked unhurriedly through the garden: a man, a boy really, his attitude and gait immediately recognizable to Metis. She sped forward, meeting him on his way up the terraced steps. She alighted gently on his collar, flicking her antennae imperceptibly across the bare skin where his neck met his shoulder. _This_ was her Tom. The familiar taste of him flooded her with relief and longing.  


He slipped silently through the French doors, walking confidently through dimly lit rooms as though he knew the way. He reached the entrance hall. Ignoring the sweeping, marble staircase, he headed for a pair of double doors off the hall to the left. Soft music played inside the room, just audible in the high-ceilinged entry hall. The sweet scent of expensive pipe tobacco drifted out. An ornate chandelier cast rainbows on Tom's skin as he tilted his head to listen. Decided, he reached for the scrolled, brass handle  


_No!_ Metis wanted to scream aloud, but couldn't. _No. Don't._ Terrible things lay beyond that door. If he turned that handle everything would end.  


"Don't!" With a violent jerk, Metis awoke. She was trembling with reaction, the residue of the dream still clinging to her like clammy fingers. She put a shaking hand to her cheek and realized, to her surprise, that she was crying.  


It was unnaturally dark in the underground room, lit only by a tiny, blue-flamed lamp in the corner. She glanced around the room, taking reassurance from the familiar surroundings. The chipped and worn stone walls, the floor polished with years of treading feet. Opposite her, three empty, neatly made beds faced the center of the room. On the chest at her feet rested her overnight bag, its contents strewn carelessly across the wooden lid. And, finally, beside her in the high, four-poster bed was Tom himself. He lay on his back, his long arms stretched above his head in slumber. She reached out a hand to touch him, calmed by the mere reminder of his presence.  


Her aunt thought she was at her mother's, her mother that she was at her aunt's. It didn't worry her. She had played this game before and never gotten caught. She could talk her way out of anything with her natural ease and Tom's influence.   


She rolled onto her side, supporting herself on one elbow, watching him sleep, watching the rise and fall of his chest. She stroked a gentle hand across the bare skin exposed where he'd thrown off the blanket. He woke abruptly, catching her wrist with cat-like reflexes.  


"Metis. You scared me," he said softly. Then catching sight of her tear-stained face, "What is it?"  


She opened her mouth to recall the dream, but stopped, strangely reluctant to share it with him. She shook her head. "Just a nightmare," she said instead.  


He reached up and brushed under her eyes with the tips of his long fingers. He dragged her face down to his and kissed her intently, rolling over and pushing her onto her back.  


"_Nox_," he said, breaking away for a moment. The blue flame extinguished at his word, plunging the room into thick, tangible darkness. "Metis?"   


"Mmm?" She had the unsettling sense that he could see her, even in the dark.  


"Nothing can hurt you as long as you're with me. Never forget that." His breath was hot against her neck. "I won't let anything, or anyone, touch you."  


"Tom"  


"You're mine. Always." There was an odd note of finality in his soft voice. "I won't ever let that change. Do you believe that?"  


"I believe you."  


***  



	3. The Book of Travels

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER TWO  


Summary: The golden age of flying cars, some musings regarding the Heir of Slytherin, a dinner party and a few revelations.  


  
CHAPTER TWO -- THE BOOK OF TRAVELS  


No longer slinking,  
Respectably drinking,  
Like civilized ladies and men,  
Cocktails for Two.  


(from _murder at the vanities_)  


  
When Albus returned from his early morning walk about the estate's grounds, he was greeted by the sight of Wodehouse, the manservant, overseeing the transfer of the Dumbledore's London household from a silver 1936 Daimler to the relative peace and quiet of the main house. The car listed like a conquered beast on the drive: its doors flung wide, boot open, bleeding luggage, servants and sundries from so many wounds. House elves buzzed about like stinging flies, while Wodehouse hovered like a watchful buzzard. And there, in the midst of a whirlwind of activity as always, was Albus' mother.  


"Albus!" she cried, handing a hatbox to an already heavily burdened house elf. Ariadne Dumbledore was a handsome woman of fifty with an aristocratic nose and greying auburn hair. She was tall, slender and held herself well, having graced the parlors of many a well-born house in her youth.  


"My dear, I am so glad to see you." She hugged him perfunctorily, as only so much maternal affection was appropriate before an audience of servants.  


"Hello, Mother," Albus returned. "I trust the trip was uneventful?"  


"Well." She adjusted the patterned scarf knotted at her neck. "We were very nearly upset by one of those dreadful aeroplanes near Beershorn Halt, of all unpleasant places. But no one saw us, so no harm done. Really, I don't know how we can go on sharing the skies with Muggles, who keep inventing new ways to fly every other day. Any day now they'll be making flying cars illegal. What's next? Broomsticks? I'm glad your father's not here to see it, he'd burst a blood vessel."  


"And Aberforth? Did he not come down with you?"  


"No. He'll be here this afternoon with the London cousins. Out cavorting till all hours, the lot of them." She shook her head. "Whatever shall I do with him? And close on thirty, too. He's far too old for those antics." She turned to her younger son and smiled. "But you, dear Albus, are my rock.None of that silly nonsense for you."  


"Excuse me, madam." Wodehouse appeared at Ariadne's elbow. "Would you have me lay on breakfast now? Or do you wish to refresh yourself first?"  


"Now would be lovely, Wodehouse." She dismissed him with a wave. "Come along, Albus," she said, returning her attention to her son. "We shall breakfast, and over a cup of strong tea you can tell me all about young Miss Lisbon."  


By the time they reached the morning room, the table was already laden with a full breakfast. Albus wondered briefly how Wodehouse managed it all, magic or no. A tiny, female house elf clad in a violet-sprigged tea towel was just placing a pot of marmalade and spoon next to a large vase of enormous, yellow flowers in the center of the round table. She scurried out at the sight of the mistress and young master.  


"Ah," Ariadne said, fingering the flowers as she sat down. "Those are rather vulgar, aren't they?"   


"They _are_ from our garden."  


She made a face, then glared out the wide windows that opened onto the orderly garden. "English country garden flowers, of course. I suppose we should love them because they're ours and we've grown them from little bulbs and seedlings, but it isn't always possible, is it?"  


"Carefully, Mother. More of that talk and I'll begin to divine a double meaning in it."  


She laughed, pouring out the tea. "Not you, of course, my little sapling. You've grown straight and true as an elm, and have managed so far not to sprout any untoward blossoms."  


Albus spooned a portion of kedgeree onto his plate and poked at it uncertainly.   


"Now." Ariadne picked up her cup and fixed her son in her gaze. "How is your young June?"  


"June is hardly mine, Mother." He jabbed at a kipper. "I do wish you and Mrs. Lisbon wouldn't conspire so dreadfully."  


"Rhea is of that mind, certainly. But I shouldn't scheme to yoke you to anyone, Albus." She sipped thoughtfully at her tea. "However, I've watched the pair of you since the day you figured out boys and girls were differently equipped. Your heart was on your sleeve back then. You can't deny it -- and it's still obvious to everyone but you."  


"Even were I to admit any feelings for June, it would hardly do me good. She views me with a sisterly affection and nothing more."  


"You may be right," his mother said thoughtfully.  


Albus looked up sharply. That didn't exactly fall under the heading of supportive, maternal advice.  


"You may be," she continued. "But how you'll ever know for certain if you continue on as you are is quite beyond me."  


A soft breeze stirred the white lace curtains, bringing with it the scent of freshly cut grass from the lawns. They sat in a companionable silence, broken occasionally by idle talk of relatives and old family friends. Albus spoke briefly about his classes and his students. All talk of romantic entanglement was, by silent, mutual assent, put aside.  


When she was finished, Ariadne put down her cup with a clink. "Now, dear boy, I've an ocean of things to attend to for tonight, but we'll talk again later before all the clamor begins." She stood, squeezing his shoulder as she breezed out.  


Albus, leaving his breakfast largely untouched, left the morning room in hopes of finding a place to keep safely out from underfoot. He rambled around the house at loose ends. He was far too preoccupied to attempt any work, though he knew he ought to take a look through his papers if he planned on discussing matters with June after dinner. So eventually he retreated back to the study.   


He sat at the desk and pulled a large, ancient book closer to him. He unrolled a long ream of parchment and dipped his quill into a pot of indigo ink. A sound from behind him made him look up.  


"Oh. You're back," he greeted the scarlet bird that alighted on a makeshift perch near an open window. The phoenix ducked its head in what Albus fancied was an affirmation.  


"It is rather awkward, you know," he said after a moment. "I've no idea what to call you. Have you a proper name at all? I don't suppose you've any way to tell me even if you did.  


"In fact," he continued, "it would make things much easier for me if you could talk. I'll wager you could explain a lot of this to me." He gestured at the book and his scattered papers. "What did Scoresby find? What did he learn? I know you were there until the end." Albus shook his head in defeat. "I'm sorry, old fellow. It's not fair of me to wish. Do you fancy something to eat? I'm sure I've got a packet of biscuits in here somewhere."  


Albus rummaged around in the tiny bar built into one of the bookcases, coming up with a box of assorted cocktail biscuits. He crossed the room and offered one to the bird. It took the biscuit gently from his fingers and then extended its head to be petted.  


"Spoiled old thing, aren't you?" Albus couldn't suppress a smile. "Here, have one of the cheese ones." The phoenix looked up at him with milky eyes and Albus would have sworn the bird was smiling. It seemed he'd made quite a friend. He crumpled the biscuit box and effortlessly Banished it into the rubbish bin. The bird piped a musical note in thanks.  


When Albus sat once again at the desk and rescued his quill, poised to write, he felt a pleasant pressure on his shoulder. The phoenix perched there, a vaguely reassuring presence, watching over Albus' work for the remainder of the afternoon.   
  
***  


_Not again_, Albus thought.  


Was this a dream or a memory? Perhaps he was dreaming memories. His dreams of late were so vivid, so important, so oppressive that he hardly knew where the boundary between waking and sleeping, remembering and dreaming, conscious and subconscious lay.  
Once again he found himself in Dippet's office, standing behind a large, dark-haired boy. The headmaster sat behind his wide desk facing them.  


"So, Albus, what do you propose?"  


Albus looked down at his young cause. The boy looked perfectly wretched. Albus felt a sudden twinge of sympathy. _Hadn't he lost his father just a few months ago?_  


With an eerie sense of the familiar he began to plead the boy's case. "If you could see your way toward just letting him stay on. He hasn't anywhere else to go"  


"You're too kind for your own good, Albus," the headmaster replied. The boy shifted and squirmed in shame, his huge bulk eliciting protest from the rickety chair.  


"Please, sir." Albus squeezed the back of the chair, trying to keep in check the words he really longed to say. _This isn't right. I don't believe it for a minute._  


_Don't you?_ another voice purred in his head. _Do you suppose that you alone are right while everyone else has been fooled?_  


"Perhaps I do," he said aloud. The headmaster's office had faded, replaced by the damp, dripping tile of a communal lavatory. It smelled of mildew and, beneath that, the sickly-sweet decay of death, rotting flowers left too long in slimy water. The door of one of the stalls hung off its hinges. Albus dared go no closer, for he knew what he would find inside. Poor child, frozen and lifeless, but untouched. No spider had done that.  


But then who? Or what?  


Something soft and scaly slithered behind him, behind the walls, the scraping swish echoing in his head.   


With a sudden jerk that nearly flung him out of his chair, he woke up. He looked up at the clock. The last few hours had slipped quietly away, and now he would be late if he didn't hurry. He was in his own suite of rooms at the back of the house. He crossed quickly to the large, mahogany wardrobe and snatched up his dress robes. Face washed, hair combed (oh, how his mother detested his long hair!), he dressed hurriedly, then ventured down the wide front stairs.  


He came down onto the landing in time to see June in the entry hall, graciously allowing herself to be kissed on the cheek by his venerable grandfather. She looked far more subdued than she had Friday night. Her hair was pulled back into a conservative knot and her scarlet lipstick conspicuously absent. She caught sight of him on the landing and smiled.  


His mother emerged from the parlor. "Fortinbras! There you are!" she said to his grandfather. "Really. You should let the elves get the door."  


"How else will I steal a few moments with this stunning young woman all to myself?" He winked at June. She winked back.   


Ariadne shook her head, then smiled, "So lovely of you to join us, June. It's been at least six months!" She took June's hand and pressed her cheek against the younger woman's making kissing noises at the air.   


"Albus! Why are you hiding up there?" she said, releasing June and catching sight of her son.  


"I'm not hiding, Mother." He descended and took June's hand, surprising himself by placing a light kiss on her cheek. "I'm glad you're here, June." Something about his family's presence made him more proprietary toward her than usual. Not seeming to notice, she took his arm.   


"Thank you for inviting me," she said as they entered the parlor. "But something tells me this is about more than you missing my company."  
"You're right. I need your opinion about some things, but that can wait until later."  


Aberforth was leaning against the molded mantelpiece, swilling a snifter of brandy and chatting with their cousin, Algie, about Quiddtich.  
"Carruthers just doesn't have the, you know, speed," he said, punctuating with his lighted cigarette. "Britain's without a chance this year."  


Albus fixed June a drink while his maiden aunts clucked appreciatively over her: Didn't she look lovely? And so successful at such a young age. Her mother and father must be terribly proud.  


"Oh, yes. Terribly," June said with a fixed smile as Albus handed her a drink.  


Sunday dinner was a long-standing family tradition. One Sunday a month, all the aunts, uncles and cousins gathered at the country estate. When Albus had been younger, the house had filled up with laughing, joking people, drinking and eating and enjoying each other's company. These days they were lucky to fill all the seats at the table.  


"I say, June Lisbon!" Algie exclaimed, sweeping over and claiming June's hand. "You look smashing! It's been simply ages. We missed you at the Cathcart's shooting party."  


"Yes. Of course," June said. "I've never really cared much for guns -- silly, useless Muggle things. I don't see what you men find so fascinating about them."  


Algie laughed and shook his head. "You always were a bit of a prickle, June." He leaned in conspiratorially. "If my old cousin here bores you to death, come find me, eh," he said and wandered off with a backward glance and a wink in her direction.  


June put a hand to her head.  


"Headache already?" Albus whispered. "Usually it takes me till the soup course."  


"Madame," Wodehouse appeared in the door, "dinner is served."  


***  


By the time the soup was served, Albus did, indeed, have a headache.  


He was seated at his mother's right hand, June across from him. His grandfather was at the opposite end of the table, with Aberforth at his right. Catching Albus' eye, his grandfather raised his glass in a subtle salute. Albus shook his head. The soup was of the very clear, very hot, consommé variety, which Albus detested. From across the table June smiled sympathetically at him.  


"I so rarely get out here these days" Ariadne was saying to June. "spending more and more of my time in Town. I suppose I just get lonely now. This big, old house"  


"So, June," said Uncle Bertram from Albus' right. "You're a Ministry insider. Tell us. What on earth does the Ministry propose to do about this Muggle war? Surely, it can't be allowed to continue. Our kind are beginning to feel its effects."  


June smiled slowly. To anyone that didn't know her, this would mean nothing. But to Albus who'd watched her go from safety pins to hairpins, the deliberate transformation was immediately obvious. Her face closed up behind a mask of polite professionalism, and she replied, much as she might have to particularly impertinent reporter, "I doubt our Ministry plans to do anything about the war. It's not our business really, now is it?"  


"Humph," Uncle Bertram replied. "That's what they say, of course. But everyone knows we're involved. Of course, the Ministry doesn't like to admit it for fear of how it might look. But make no mistake, young woman; we're right there in the thick of it. Though to what end only those in power can say."  


Ariadne scooped up her wineglass with a practiced hand. "Now, enough talk of politics. You'll put me right off this wonderful dinner." She took a careful sip, watching her brother-in-law meaningfully over the rim of the goblet.  


He nodded, then turned his attention to one of Albus' many cousins. Wodehouse slipped in and consulted briefly with Ariadne about something.  


June took advantage of the brief moment of peace to say softly, "You know, Albus, you're my one beacon of sanity at these dreadful social things. You always have been."  


He smiled, seeing a reflection of his own amusement in her eyes. "You're a lighthouse in the gale for me, as well."  


"Do you remember," she said, leaning forward with a malicious gleam in her eye, "your cousin Elisabeth's debut?"  


"Oh, good lord." Albus flushed. "Now that was truly shameful."  


"They were a load of silly bores and you know it."  


"But still I thought she'd never forgive me for that."  


"It was quite funny!" June protested.  


"What a pair of children we were -- all of sixteen and convinced we were so smart."  


June pulled a face. "We _were_ smarter than that crowd, not that it would have been especially hard to be."  


"You're a terrible elitist," he said, as a servant finally removed his untouched, vile soup.  


"That's not the attitude I recall you having at the time. In fact, I remember you getting quite silly on champagne and"  


He reached across the table and caught her hand. "June, my mother is sitting right next to you. If you finish that story, I shall have to kill you and then myself, and it would be ever so untidy and ruin everyone's dinner."  


"All right then. I'll not spill your youthful indiscretions so publicly. I'll wait and blackmail you when I really need something."  


The courses slipped past and the conversation naturally turned back to current events: the Muggle war, the accompanying uncertainty and disquiet in the wizarding world. June remained diplomatically silent throughout. When his grandfather finally suggested brandy and cigars, Albus plotted a way to excuse himself and June. Albus walked around the end of the table and offered June his arm. She took it without looking at him She was worrying her lip and staring distractedly at a portrait of Albus' thrice-great grandfather, Bingley Dumbledore.  


"What is it?" he leaned down and spoke softly in her ear. "Am I such a bore? Would you rather sneak off and find a convenient rosebush with Cousin Algie?"  


"Oh, do stop," she sighed halfheartedly.  


"Well, when you won't even pretend to laugh at my terrible jokes, I know something's amiss. Tell me, June."  


"All this talk of Muggles and war. It's as you were saying the other night. It's all coming home to us, I fear-" She shook her head. "And flag-brandishing Englishwizards like your uncle don't help matters."  


"That was rather boorish of him, but-" he broke off, then, "You really are worried, aren't you?"  


She pressed her mouth into a thin line. "It's nothing. Just idle talk. Don't look at me so! You'll give me wrinkles before my time." She paused, then laughed. "Oh, Albus! You are too good! You look as though you'd run out and slay a dragon for me just now! So serious, thou wrinkled brow. Unfurrow yourself, darling Albus. All is well. I promise."  


***  


After disentangling themselves from his family, he led her to the study. The lamps sprang to life, guttering and shying, at his mumbled word. June looked around curiously, down at the Turkish rug, up at the moving mural. "I've never been in here before. It's beautiful."  


Albus smiled wryly. "In a terrifying sort of way. Yes."  


She didn't hear him. "This may sound strange. But it, it smells like your father in here: old books, leather and pipe tobacco. I'll always remember that about him" She broke off at the look on his face. "Albus, I'm sorry. That was terriblyI mean, you must still miss him and here I am making it worse." 

"No." He shook his head. "It's quite all right. My father was a hard man to live with. I'm only glad to see that someone has fond memories of him." He turned away before the shocked expression on her face could turn to pity.  


She walked over to join him by his father's desk, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "What is it you wanted to show me?"   


Pushing thoughts of his father out of his mind, Albus picked up a sheaf of parchment. "I've been doing some translation work on this." He gestured to the book, which lay open on the desk. "Several months ago, Scoresby and Dent you're familiar with them, aren't you?"  


"Yes, Albus," she smiled. "Two of the most powerful wizards of the age? I've heard of them. I work with the press, you know."  


Ignoring her gentle sarcasm, he continued, "They came into possession of this book of prophecies about ten years ago. Supposedly, it dates back more than a thousand years. They've spent the last decade attempting to translate it. They were nearly finished and wanted my help."  


June said nothing, but merely raised an eyebrow.  


"Just before the end of last term, Scoresby went abroad, searching for a corroboratory text in the North. Last month, his bird returned to me with this book."  


"But where's Scoresby?"  


Albus grimaced. "Dead. He was killed in Albania."  


"And Dent?"  


"Also dead. He died trying to help a wounded Muggle airman in Germany."  


"How foolish. Getting involved in this war." She gripped the back of the desk chair hard.  


"I can understand wanting to help, June." He shook his head. "But I also understand why we can't. Wizards are just as susceptible to the lure of power as Muggles are. Were we to fight to save lives, there would be those among us willing to fight for power. Rather than sparing lives, we would only cause more bloodshed." He pulled the book closer to them. "Bother men died, leaving me the only one with the knowledge to finish their work. Scoresby found something. I think those murders in Albania may have happened because he was there."  


"But who?" June began.  


"I don't know. That's why it's so important to finish. If I'm understanding these findings correctly, there could be some serious implications." He looked up to make sure he still had her interest, then continued, "That's why I wanted to show you. You're very close to the attitudes at the Ministry."  


She studied the book dubiously. "I don't really see what relevance such an old book could have. The Ministry is primarily," she seemed to choose her next words carefully, "interested in issues with immediacy."  


"This has tremendous immediacy, June. In fact, if I'm right, it's directly linked not only to Scoresby's death and those murders abroad, but to the attacks at Hogwarts last term."  


She looked up, clearly surprised. "Really? I thought all that had been resolved." The whole affair had been a public relations nightmare for not only the school, but the Ministry as well.  


"Frankly, I think the whole thing was a gigantic cover-up." He looked her straight in the eye.   


"A cover-up, Albus? I'm the first to admit the Ministry is less than honest with the public, but a cover-up that massive would be impossible. Someone would know. It could never be kept quiet."  


"I'm not saying the Ministry covered things up. But I am convinced that the wrong person was blamed for it. A convenient person. Everyone was so eager to end the whole mess that no one asked questions. " He began flipping pages. "I know it's a long way from my suspicions to what this book says, but I'm making progress.  


"It's all here, June. I was skeptical myself at first. This isn't the first time a translation of this book has been attempted. There are a lot of these so-called 'non-canon' texts in existence. They're very controversial, not even officially recognized as historical documents. People have attempted to disprove them, invalidate them, and some are worse than useless."  


"You're losing me, Albus. I'm not an academic. Remember?" She leaned against the desk, gazing at him with a mixture of interest and concern.  


He sighed, casting around for the best way to simplify this. "Perhaps I should start at the beginning. It has long been speculated that Rowena Ravenclaw was a _somnium viator_. The things she wrote, even before the school was founded, include all sorts of prescient allusions"  


June was staring at him as if he'd gone mad. "You think she was a Seer? I thought you had more sense than to believe in that sort of thing: table-tipping and scrying and the like. It's a whole lot of cheesecloth and nonsense if you ask me."  


"Not a Seer, June. _Somnium viator_. A dream traveler, a wizard who can see the future inside other people's dreams." Catching sight of the look on her face, he said quickly, "It's not a myth. There are documented cases from this century. I can show you"  


"I believe you, Albus. It's the rest of this I'm finding hard to believe."   


"Humor me for a moment. Let's say Ravenclaw was what I say she was. What would you make of this?"  


He handed her a piece of parchment, watching as she scanned it.  


At last she said, "This is nothing but a load of tangled images and vague innuendo. Any parlor magician worth his tea leaves could fake this."  


"Ravenclaw had no frame of reference for the things she saw. The imagery is all relative to the period she lived in. Wouldn't it be stranger if she called automobiles, airplanes, electric kettles and such by their proper names when she'd never seen one?"  


June put the parchment down and began to pace the length of the mosaic rug. "How do you even know for certain that Ravenclaw wrote this?"  


Albus felt vaguely triumphant, he'd expected her to ask that question. "I don't know for certain. In fact, the Department of Magical Artifacts believes this book is a hoax. However, Young published his findings on this text. He had faith in its authenticity. He'd the one who translated the first pages of the book, and was able to correlate every one of her predictions to actual events."  


She stopped pacing. "All this is after the fact. Albus, really. You can make any situation seem to fit a prophecy afterward. It hardly proves anything."  


"That's what I thought as well, until Scoresby and Dent approached me with the things they'd found." He looked very seriously at her. "June, I began to translate the later passages myself Yes, I know what you're going to say"  


"Well, that's impressive as _I've_ no idea what I'm going to say." She looked from one end of the room to the other. "Did your father keep any brandy in here? I think I need some."  


Albus pointed his wand at a section of bookcase and the small bar swung out. June poured two generous brandies and crossed over to him.  


She was already drinking hers as she handed him the glass of caramel-colored liquid. "Albus, I know you've been at loose ends lately and I suppose I could've been a better friend. I've been so focused on I think perhaps you just need" She faltered, then seemed to make up her mind. "Take this to the Ministry and they'll laugh you out of Hogwarts. Playing the eccentric professor will only protect you so far."  


"The Heir of Slytherin is described in detail."  


She started. "Well, no wonder no one wants to believe it. That old controversy."  


"I hardly think we can dismiss it as a myth anymore, in light of what's happened." He closed the book with a flash of frustration.  


"You truly believe that Scoresby died because of his research? And you think that by deciphering the things written in this book, you can find out who the real Heir of Slytherin is and see justice done?" she asked carefully.  


"Yes, I do." His expression was grave. "And I have to try."  


She nodded slowly. "I'm willing to hear you out because you're my friend, but no one else will listen. You do know that?"  


"I expected as much, but that's not going to stop me from continuing this research." He looked up again. "What do you say? Will you help me?"  


She seemed to be considering, then finally said, "Why you?"  


"What?" He was taken aback. "What do you mean?"  


"Why did Scoresby and Dent ask for you specifically? They had a hundred other resources at their disposal. But they came to you." She leveled her even gaze at him. "Why?"  


He considered a moment, then decided to tell her the truth. "The book told them to," he said at last.  


***  
  



	4. Wanderlust

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER THREE  


Chapter Three: September, 1943 -- Butterflies and beautiful foliage, Albus Dumbledore: Ladies' Man, a very important newspaper delivery and a meeting of the evil Dead Poets Society.  


  
CHAPTER THREE -- WANDERLUST  


This is the dead land  
This is the cactus land  
Here the stone images   
Are raised, here they receive  
The supplication of a dead man's hand  
Under the twinkle of a fading star.  


(from _the hollow men_ t.s. eliot)  


  
September came, and brought with it the vibrant, long-fingered sprays of autumn color that decorated the trees. Albus Dumbledore taught his sixth-year students to change tea-cozies into tabby cats and worked late into the night translating passages from Ravenclaw's book. Still unconvinced but willing to help him out, June promised to get him some files on the Albanian murders from the Ministry. He expected her to come out to the school within a fortnight and, toward the end of September, she did indeed come. June sauntered in just before the close of one of his lessons, leaned casually against the doorjamb and watched with a disconcerting half-smile on her face as he attempted to teach a class of fifth-years to turn pats of butter into butterflies. By the time they finished, the air was filled with colorfully patterned, fluttering wings. Several girls exclaimed in delight. Metis McGonagall attracted a half-dozen blue- and silver-patterned butterflies that settled in her black hair; a Mona Lisa smile played on her lips while her friends oo-ed and ah-ed over the picture she made.  


"They are pretty, aren't they?" she said sedately, looking like a queen holding court. Metis reached out a hand and one of her courtiers fluttered down onto her outstretched finger. The butterfly twitched a friendly antenna at her. She looked down at it, the expression on her face changing just perceptibly, as though she'd remembered something unpleasant. She shook the butterfly off her finger and shooed the others from her hair.  


"All right," Albus said good-naturedly, passing out butterfly nets. "Round them up and put them in the back. We'll give them to Professor Ivey for her greenhouses."  


He looked up at June through the swarm of butterflies and swooping nets. The afternoon light slanting in from a corner window lit her burnished, blonde hair. She hugged the doorway, keeping clear of the laughing students and their nets. Once the insects were safely rounded up, the students snatched up their books and hurried out of the classroom.  


"Hello, Metis," June said, stepping away from the door to allow the students to exit.  


"Oh, hello again," Metis said politely as she passed.  


"Who is she?" one of Metis' companions whispered a bit too loudly, grabbing Metis' arm. "How do you know her?"  


The cluster of girls clogged the doorway, holding up the other students, watching with stifled giggles and whispers behind cupped hands as June greeted Albus with a sisterly kiss on his cheek. Metis finally pried her entourage away from the classroom and the question of their professor's mysterious, blonde visitor. The other students exited as well, casting more than a few backward glances.  


"I seem to have caused quite a stir," June said conspiratorially. "Likely your students never imagined you were such a deft hand with the ladies."  


Albus watched the retreating students' interest, knowing that by the time dinner was over half the school would know about 'Professor Dumbledore's girlfriend.' "I suppose I could do worse," he said, uncharacteristically. "I mean, you are rather dishy, as my students would say."  


June rolled her eyes. "Next you'll be calling me a 'tomato.' Isn't that what the Yanks call their girls?"  


"Yes, something like that." Albus nodded gravely. "But would you really like me to nickname you after a fruit? It is red, I suppose."   


"Perfect for St. Valentine's," she agreed. "But I'd much prefer something more romantic. Like a beet." She considered for a moment. "Oh, hell. They're purple, aren't they?"  


"Reddish-purple, and not fruit, either. I think we could pull it off, though. I could call you 'my little sugar-beet.'"  


"Good lord, Albus. More of this and I'll feel compelled to flutter my eyelashes at you, and we both know what will happen then."  


"No, really? What?" he said, gamely taking the bait.  


"Why, you'll fall in love with me, of course. And there'll be nothing for it but to have a passle of obnoxious, red-haired children with a penchant for sherbet lemon and the ability to lie without remorse."  


"I'm not sure which is worse, your social Darwinism or my hair."  


"Don't forget the sweet-tooth. They'll be terribly fat, as well."  


Albus smiled, feeling more relaxed than he had in days. "Well, better safe than sorry then."  


"Quite," June smiled, leaning against a desk.  


"To business. My office?" He indicated the way with an outstretched arm.  


He offered her a chair in his cozy office, where a fire was roaring even though the weather remained quite warm for September.  


"There's not much here, I'm afraid," June said, opening the files carefully. "If there's any real record of the investigation, it's likely with the Department of Mysteries."  


Albus sat across from her as she began to read aloud.  


"The victims, it seems, were Scoresby, his three English companions, and a score of local men -- good lord, I didn't realize there'd been so many. No wonder people were up in arms."  


Albus shook his head. "Likely people were more upset by the four Englishmen than the twenty Albanians."  


"The bodies were found My god" A picture fluttered out of the file, drifting to rest on his desk. June paled. "My god. Who could do something like that?"  


Albus deftly picked up the fallen photo. "This is how they were found?"  


"I assume so," said June, swallowing quickly. "It's the only photo of the scene at any rate."  


Albus tapped a quill against the desk as he thought. "I've seen this before, June. It's a warning. I wonder that no one at the Ministry saw it for what it was."  


"What do you mean? A warning?"  


"Well, for one thing, Scoresby and his companions weren't killed where they were discovered. The murders happened elsewhere, and then they were moved. Yes, that makes sense" He smoothed out the picture in front of them. "See here?" He indicated with one long finger. "The way the bodies are displayed in the fieldthe symbols written in the grass" He looked up at June. "Does it say in the report whether those symbols were written in human blood?"  


June flipped through a few crisp pieces of parchment. "No no. I don't see anything about it here."   


"Hmm. Someone has to know," he said, half to himself.  


"You said you'd seen this before. Where on earth, Albus?"  


Albus snatched up Ravenclaw's book from a table near his desk. "In here, for one."  


He thumbed to a marked page, and ran his finger along the bottom of a crude illustration. "Slytherin."   


"But, Albus!" June exclaimed, surprise coloring her features. "Salazar Slytherin wasn't a dark wizard. I mean, he may have been a tad over-ambitious. And, from all reports, his people skills could have used some attention but evil? I hardly think so. Ask any wizard historian. They'll tell you the same."  


"Perhaps. But Salazar Slytherin has been a source of controversy in the magical community for a century or two now. And, according to this book, Ravenclaw certainly seemed to have her doubts about him." He tugged the book closer to them. "All of the information we have about the Founders comes from before Slytherin left the school. We know he and Gryffindor were at odds and Slytherin left, but then what? A hundred years of silence."  


June nodded, encouraging him to continue.  


"I think that's what Scoresby was after in Albania. A text that would not only corroborate what we have here, but one that would fill in that gap and explain some of the seeming inconsistencies in Ravenclaw's writings. And then he's found murdered, in such a manner. This can't be a coincidence."  


"You've lost me again. You say that these symbols," she tapped the picture, "were used by Salazar Slytherin? Over a thousand years ago?"  


"Well, that's what some historians believe, at any rate. Most of your more traditional historians dismiss it as hearsay. If it were true a lot of the foundations of wizard society would be sorely shaken. But there are some new schools of thought, people who aren't afraid to explore those possibilities. There were, admittedly, a lot of groups claiming ties to one or other of the Founders in the years directly afterward. It's all apocrypha, and none of it can be truly substantiated." He paused. "According to several legends, the followers of Salazar Slytherin formed a cult after his death. They practiced rites very much like the ones that seem to have been performed on Scoresby and the others. I can't say for sure, I'd need more details."  


"To what end?"  


"Dreams, June. Dreams that foretell the future. Supposedly, Slytherin was intrigued by Ravenclaw's abilities. After he split with the other three, it's believed by some that he found ways to induce the same sort of dream state artificially. Unfortunately, the toll on the body and mind is very high. It's among the darkest kind of magic, bloody and vicious."  


"But who? Surely people aren't practicing this sort of magic now."  


He smiled wryly. "I think you'll find people are. But who did this I'm not sure. But I think it's very important I find out."  


***  


"Well, this brings back a memory or two," June smiled, closing her eyes and tipping her face up to the ceiling of the Great Hall, painted in the reds and oranges of the last rays of the sun. "This place feels so young, there's electricity in the air. It's like I'm young again."   


"June, we're hardly old ourselves." Albus smiled, but looked as though he'd rather still be upstairs poring over old books and Ministry parchments. June had nicely but firmly insisted that they come down for dinner. She'd been on the verge of feigning a hunger-induced fainting spell when he'd finally been convinced.  


"Yes, but we're not young like that." She gestured at a table of laughing students as they passed. "It makes me feel a bit wistful."  


"Regretting your misspent youth already?" he said, with a sidelong glance at her.  


"Oh, make fun of me, will you?" She smiled, but the longing feeling remained. She swept her glance around the Hall again as they reached the staff table. Most of the other staff members were already seated at the high table, but Headmaster Dippet conjured an extra chair for June and gestured her to sit.  


"Albus, you didn't tell us you were expecting guests," Dippet smiled. "Hello, June."  


"Professor."  


"Well, sir, I didn't realize it myself," Albus said graciously, taking a seat himself. "Just lucky, I guess."  


"Flatterer," June muttered under her breath, sipping the elderflower wine Albus graciously poured her, then turning to engage the professors in polite conversation. They seemed delighted to have a new person among them.   


_I wonder it doesn't get dull, the same faces all the time._ June glanced surreptitiously at Albus. He was younger than most of the other teachers. How did he get on here? It would have driven June mad. All these old bachelors and formidable spinsters. It seemed that to teach the young, one sacrificed a life outside of that. Still, Albus seemed happy, if perhaps a little lonely. _Besides_, she told herself, _it's not as if he's going to stay here forever and wind up like old Dippet. Albus will find some smart, outlandish girl who will make his mother chuckle and his aunts faint, and give me a score of incorrigible godchildren._  


Just then, the clipped voice of a radio news announcer intruded upon her thoughts, "On the Eastern Front, Soviet troops liberated the Russian city of Smolensk today after several days of heavy fighting"  


Startled, June looked around for the source of the voice.  


"That's new," she observed, gesturing toward a sturdy-looking, second-hand, Muggle radio at the far end of the Hall. A group of teenagers were already huddled around it, their heads inclined unconsciously toward the sound.  


"We got it so the Muggle-born students would have a way of hearing news of the war."  


"We, Albus?" June severely doubted Armando Dippet had gone out of his way to commandeer a radio or take the time to fit it to work without electricity.  


Albus looked sheepish. "All right. Me." He ducked his head. "So what? Someone else would have if I hadn't."  


"No, they wouldn't have." June tilted her head to one side and smiled at him. "I know I've said it before, but you are too good." She looked back at the radio and shook her head. "I can't believe they let that go on during dinner, though. In our day, the teachers would have put a stop to that sort of unseemliness."  


"It was a bit of a battle to get some of the other professors to come around," he said quietly. "But in the end we compromised -- the radio only gets played during dinner on Fridays."  


Albus' plate had disappeared, and he was dawdling over the remnants of his wine, watching her with a kind of indecision in his face. June ignored it; it was probably just his pining for his books and papers again. Well, she wasn't going to stand for that. Scoresby, Slytherin and whomever else could wait.  


"Are you quite finished?" She folded her napkin, and looked up with a wicked smile. "It's been so long since I was last up here. There's someplace I want to go. I think I'd like to recapture some of that misspent youth."  


***  


The low, sweet rhythm of the radio played a backbeat to the rumble of conversation in the Great Hall. Several of the teachers looked impossibly scandalized at the impropriety of it. At the high table, they pursed their lips as if to say, 'At least it's only once a week.'   


Metis found she rather liked the company of the radio, with its soft music and soothing voices. It provided a welcome relief from the prattling conversation around her. She looked down the length of the Ravenclaw table. Funny, how she hardly knew these people. She lived with them, studied with them, played with them, and yet Across from her and on her left, three other girls chatted easily. Metis feigned interest but her thoughts remained very far away. Anyone who knew Metis would have said that these girls were her closest friends, and after a manner it was true. The four of them were in the same house, the same year. They chatted about boys and dresses and what they would do once they left school. But they were passing friends; Metis had never developed any truly close attachments beyond Tom. Hearing her own name, Metis focused on the conversation.  


Ruth Middleton picked disinterestedly at the remnants of her dinner. "And, of course, Tom and Metis. You mustn't forget our very own Hogwarts princess and handsome prince."  


"What?" Metis asked.  


"You are too melodramatic, Ruth!" said Orva Dashwood, a nervous, baby-faced blonde.  


"You're a million miles away tonight, Metis," the other girl said, flipping her straight, brown hair over one shoulder.  


"I'm sorry. What was that about Tom?"  


"We were just planning a little holiday celebration. New Year's Eve, of course. You must say you'll come. I want to show the both of you off. Tom's our very own Prince Charming. The debs will eat him up with whipped cream and sugared violets."  


"This prince? Does he ride in on a white charger, as well?" Cara Flaherty said archly.  


"Oh, that's perfectly obscene. The things you say"  


"For once, Orva, I didn't intend a double meaning in that." Cara raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and here's His Highness now" she trailed off.  


Metis looked up to see Tom loping easily across the Hall toward her. He watched her intently as he walked, not seeming to see anyone else in the crowded room. The background faded away as he approached, like tunnel vision. Metis' whole world narrowed to him, and him alone.  


"Metis?" Someone was shaking her shoulder.   


"Honestly. See if I'm ever that stupid about some boy"  


"He is divine, though."  


"Hush! That's her beau."  


"Her what? Besides, she's not listening. Are you, Metis?"  


Metis started, knocking over her goblet. "What? Oh, I'm sorry." She scrubbed uselessly at the stained tablecloth with her napkin, managing only to make the stain worse.  


"Don't do that," a soft voice said at her ear. A strong, slender hand covered hers and the sopping napkin was plucked from her fingers.  
She looked down at her hands, sticky with juice. Tom slid his fingers in between hers, linking their hands together, staining his own knuckles. He knelt on the stone floor beside her chair, his hands still tangled in hers. Time halted and they just sat there, neither speaking. His eyes were very close, and Metis felt no power on earth could ever make her look away from them. Was this how the prey felt when faced with the cobra, the snake king? Would she stay hypnotized like this until he struck? She imagined briefly how it must feel. The sharp, sweet, burning pain of his bite. The two locked in an unequal embrace, fangs sunk deep inside flesh. Dark poison flaring like fire in the blood, and then the mellow, drowsing fall into darkness.  


He moved toward her abruptly, and she bit back a gasp. _The strike_, she thought.  


He kissed her softly on her mouth. _The bite._  


She kissed him back. _And now the poison_. But what happens when the prey, the tiny, trembling bird, begins to like the venom? To seek out the serpent and dare him into biting?  


He released her, standing up and motioning her to follow him. "Come on. We haven't much time. I'm expected somewhere tonight."  


Metis rose and followed him, slipping silently, thoughtlessly, into step next to him without a word to her friends.   


"Metis? Be sure to ask him about the holiday-" Ruth called after them. "Oh, hell. No use now, the world could end and they'd never notice."  


Cara rolled her eyes as the couple moved out of earshot. "Everyone makes such a fuss over those two."  


"Well, just look at them," Ruth said matter-of-factly. "There's not a girl at this school who doesn't wish, down in some dark, secret part of her soul, that she were Metis McGonagall."  


"He's so handsome and so so very." Orva leaned her elbows against the table. "And she's pretty and smart. What more do you need?"  


"Don't misunderstand," Cara said carefully. "You know I like Metis. She's very sweet. But there's something so _melodramatic_ about Tom Riddle. It gives me a headache."  


"Are you sure you aren't just a tad jealous?" Ruth challenged, but without rancor.  


"Come now." Cara slung a languid arm across Metis' abandoned chair. "I shouldn't ever want to be that owned by someone."  


Orva flushed. "Oh, but it looks so luscious, to be so in love like that."  


"You are _hopeless_. Things like that are never what they seem."  


***  


Outside the Great Hall, June swept up the main staircase, Albus tagging bewilderedly behind her. She led him up two more flights of stairs and through a corridor lined with portraits of the four Founders. There were many pictures of each, painted years after the Founders' deaths and differing wildly from one another in interpretation. They passed between a picture of Helga Hufflepuff depicted as a voluptuous, Titian-haired Venus and another of her as a slim, Victorian blonde, then into a side corridor. Albus followed at June's heels, nearly overtaking her with his long strides. She stopped in front of a large, old painting in a gilt frame. She turned and smiled triumphantly at him, then slid her wand from her long sleeve and tapped it against an oil-painting of Zhar-Ptitsa, the fiery bird of Russian legend, stealing golden apples from a lush, green garden.  


"_Paliuli_," she whispered softly.  


The portrait swung silently inward, revealing a hidden indoor garden. June pulled Albus silently inside and shut the door. The scent of ginger was on the air, and they strolled beneath silver trees. June reached up and caught a fan-shaped leaf as it drifted on the air, its tiny veins visible through translucent skin. The garden, perpetually the quiet, dark blue of summer twilight, seemed almost oppressively hushed after the noise of the Hall.  


"Remember this place?"  


Albus looked around. Magical paper lanterns hovered along the tracks of a stone path that wound through the trees into a tranquil rock garden. Glowing fireflies hovered just out of reach above a small pond.  


"Yes. I used to come here to think. I haven't been here in years, though."  


A thought seemed suddenly to occur to him. "How did you know about this? Only prefects were supposed to know how to get in h-"  


June smirked. "Really, Albus. Do you think there weren't more than a few prefects ready and willing to show me this place?"  


"They invited you up here to show you the aquariums, is that it?"  


"The fish tanks, the etchings, the submarine races. Take your pick. Boys aren't very inventive."  


"And how often did you accept?"  


She smiled. Albus the protector, everybody's big brother. "Don't worry yourself about that. It was ages ago, anyway."   


She started down the path, Albus at her heels again. He caught up to her as she prepared to cross a stone bridge over the pond.  
"Shall we?" He offered her his arm, and they strolled onto the bridge.  


About halfway across, June released his arm and leaned against the wide railing, looking down into the clear pool. Carp moved through the still water, pink waterlilies floating above them. She had a sudden urge to trail her fingers through the water, to lay on the bank and be lulled to sleep by the cicadas. She turned back to face Albus, closing her eyes and leaning back.   


"Oh, it's so lovely in here. I'd forgotten." After a moment, she felt his gaze lingering on her, and opened her eyes.  


"All better now?" he asked, with a half-smile. "Feeling more in tune with your lost youth?"  


"Now don't make fun of me," she said, closing her eyes again. "Perhaps you feel perpetually sixteen surrounded by all these children, but I've begun to feel my age and it's dreadful."  


"Ah, yes. All of twenty-five -- you're an absolute crone. And there's nothing for it like visiting a spot where clumsy, sweaty-palmed teenage boys tried to-"  


"Finish that sentence, Albus, and I swear I shall tell the _Daily Prophet_ about Aberforth's mania for goats." She glared at him, half-heartedly. He stood across from her, looking amused, the fireflies lighting his face in the twilight.  


He shrugged, scattering the fireflies. "I was only trying to point out that those were probably not the high points of adolescence to try and recapture."  


"And what was? Nearly drowning with you?"  


"Now that's not at all fair. And, besides,_ I'm_ not the one who was nearly drowned. Although," he said with a wicked gleam in his eye, "if you're really desperate to relive the past, we've got this pond. It's not very deep, but we could pretend it's Southend and I'll dunk you under a few times. What do you say, June?"  


"I'm serious, Albus"  


"Or," he said, an odd expression suddenly altering his face, "you could imagine I was one of your prefects. You never came here with me, after all."  


June looked up abruptly, surprised. There was something in his tone, beneath the words, that wasn't at all amused. She tensed involuntarily as he stepped close to her, placing his hand over hers. He took a breath, as if deciding whether to speak. "See here, June I've been doing a lot of thinking lately," he said softly. His expression went very earnest, all joking put aside.  


"Thinking? About what?" she asked, somehow afraid she already knew.  


"Well, about us as a matter of fact That sounded terribly cliché, didn't it?"  


"Did it?" She fought the urge to take a step back, out of his personal space.  


He hesitated a moment. "It's just that, I've been thinking about us for a long while actually. About whether we could" Catching sight of the look on her face, he added hurriedly, "Look, if I'm wrong about this, tell me. But just promise me you'll give it some thought. It does make sense, you and I."  


She looked up at him -- so unsure and expectant. For a half-second he was the gangly, uncertain child she had grown up loving. Loving, yes. But in love? Something squelched in her chest and she fought the sudden urge to flee. Instead, she just looked up at him saying nothing. He watched her in return, as though unsure of what her silence meant. He had to bend his head to look her in the eye; it was easy to forget how much taller he was until she was up close like this.   


Suddenly bold, he leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him with a firm hand. "Albus, don't."  


He stepped back, studying her again. He sighed, looking resigned, disappointment in his eyes. "I'm sorry, June. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."  


"Maybe not." She avoided looking at him. "We should go."  


She walked toward the entrance without looking back, very aware of his presence behind her the whole way.  


***  


"Get out."  


Tom flung open the door to the Slytherin sixth-year boys' dormitory. "Get out," he repeated, gesturing toward the common room.  


His dorm-mates complied, but not without a sulky glare or two.  


"You're angry," Metis said, her hand at his elbow.  


"A bit." His face dark and closed, he pushed her through the doorway into the now-empty room. "But it will pass."  


"Have I done something?" She allowed him to steer her toward the bed, the velvet hangings pushed to the side, the green duvet wrinkling beneath her weight.  


"Oh, not you," he sighed heavily. "Sometimes the world seems so full I feel my head will split." He knelt penitently on the floor before her and laid his head in her lap. She stroked a soft, cautious hand through his dark hair, massaging his temple, blood pounding hot and insistent against her fingers just beneath his pale skin.  


"Then forget the world," she said quietly. "For the moment at least, there is only us."  


He sat up, looking curiously into her face, studying her. "You're dangerous," he said at last. "Sometimes when you say those things I want to believe them. I want to forget everything and just be with you. But," he laughed wryly, "you wouldn't love me if I simply was. Whether you know it or not, you love the part of me that seeks, that yearns and strives. The part of me that craves power, the part that will never be satisfied. Now what, lover, does that say about us?"  


"I don't care. It wouldn't change anything if I did." She leaned down and caught his face in her hands. "Call me that again."  


"What?" he asked, but she could see in his eyes that he knew very well. He just wanted to hear her ask.  


"Lover. Call me your lover." As she spoke, a strange, hungry light flickered in his dark eyes. "Name me 'lover,'" she continued, "and I won't need my other name. Who would call it? Not you, and so I wouldn't answer."  


"Pretty words, Metis." He sat up on his knees, resting his elbows on her thighs, his hands at her waist. "Very pretty." He angled up to kiss her mouth, but stopped short. "Now say 'please.'"  


They had played this game before, and Metis knew where it would lead. "Please, Tom."  


"Hmm. That's nice." He kissed her sweetly, his hands skimming the hem of her crisp, wool skirt.  


"Do you love me?" he whispered.  


"Always."  


"What would you do for me?"  


"Anything."  


"Prove it"  


***   


Metis woke suddenly, wondering what time it was. She rolled over to look for the tiny gold, wind-up clock Tom habitually kept beside his bed. She found it, realized it wasn't nearly so late as she'd thought, and settled back against the cool sheets. Tom lay on his belly, unconsciously embracing a pillow in his long arms. His dark hair curled damply against his temples. He looked much as he must have as a very small boy, drowsy and gawky, sweetly oblivious in slumber.  


"Tom?" She rested her head against the curve of his back, feeling the movement of his shoulder blades beneath his skin, still slightly damp with sweat.   


"Yes?" he mumbled drowsily.   


"Can't I go with you tonight?"  


"No."  


He rolled over toward the far side of the bed, away from her touch. Metis sat up and turned her eyes on him. "You don't want me there? Or perhaps you simply don't trust me?"  


"I trust you."  


"But not with this."  


"The time will come, Metis, when you will know everything about me, when we won't be able to tell anymore where you end and I begin. Can't you feel that? I can. We're almost there." He placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. "Feel that." He placed his own hand on her breastbone. "They beat in time with one another, Metis. Nothing will ever change that."   


He slid his hand up to her neck, caressing the hollow of her throat with his thumb. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.  


"You must trust me right now. You first have to trust to earn mine."  


"But-"  


"Don't, Metis. Don't force this."  


She opened her eyes. A shadow had fallen across his face. He watched her warily, his long-fingered hand still around her neck. She was, she realized, completely in his power. All he would have to do was tighten his grip, squeeze the breath out of her. She knew she wouldn't fight him. He leaned in and she could feel his fingers tense.  


_Make up your mind, lover. I won't wait forever._  


The moment passed, and his fingers slipped from her skin reluctantly. "Get dressed. I've got to go soon."  


***  


In a dark forest far to the cold North, a hunted man had at last escaped his pursuers. He hadn't slept or eaten in days. He was dirty, cold and hollow, thoroughly desolated by the things he had been witness to. And when he finally allowed himself to stop and rest, hiding like a burrowing creature in a dark cave filled with dry, dead leaves, an owl swooped out of the sky and delivered his newspaper.  


He laughed aloud at the irony of it.  


Some things in life remained constant whatever else happened. It was this knowledge, beacons of normalcy in a world gone suddenly insane, that kept him from madness. He crumpled the edge of the paper with a dirty hand, scanning the headlines for news of home.  


"Spokespeople for Minister Bulfinch maintained that the Ministry has 'its top men' attending to the situation," the lead story proclaimed with the disbelieving, insinuating air that journalists perfected over time.   


Hart Bronski laughed grimly. He was one of those top men. They'd attended to the situation, all right. He thought of the final, frantic report he'd sent to his superiors seventy-two hours before, "Found source. Team dead. Only survivor. Awaiting instructions."  


When the reply had come, finding him thrashing through the underbrush of this godforsaken forest, it was not from the higher-ups but from Seward himself, "Hart- Get the hell out of there. Now. Don't wait for orders. You're expendable."  


And he'd run.  


He'd run until he'd convinced himself that no one, friend or foe, was on his tail. He'd run until he found himself here, seemingly safe for the moment. At last he could regroup, decide what was to be done. He carried with him information that could spark the tinderbox of the wizarding world. He would, he realized, have to decide where his loyalties lay, not that he had much faith in either option. But there was time enough for that. First, he needed sleep. Only his jangled nerves wouldn't comply. Instead he sat up, flipping mindlessly through the paper, trying not to think, until his body reached its limit. It took hours, until at last his wired senses began to dull. But when he finally attempted sleep, he realized what a horrifically bad idea it was.  


He'd barely drifted when the images he'd been holding back for days had come to him with an almost physical violence, an onslaught of sights, sounds and smells crashing into him like blunt force.  


Blood, stone and burning sugar. The rattle of polished bones and the syrupy scent of white-crossed poppies. A hundred chanting voices mingled with cries of pain.  


_Shit. Shit. They knew we were coming._  


Blood, slick and steaming, all over the gunmetal grey stones. Sticky hands, tracing runes in the crimson pool, like finger-painting children.  


_What do you see there? In my blood?_  


Sweet cinnamon, cloves and something else, something heady and dark, like burial spice.  


_We're never going to make it out of here. _  


The tall, hooded man with his hands on Brona's belly.   


_We can see it in you. Don't be frightened of what's to come. Won't you help us?_  


If she'd been scared, she didn't let them see. The knife was silver, like a sickle. Like a reaper's scythe.  


_The time is near, is it not?_  


A wide-eyed waif pale in the dark, an apparition in her white robes, sat at his shackled feet chewing oakapples and seeing impossible visions.  


_Do you dream? What does the future tell you? Does it say to you that you will live through this? That's what the dreams have told me._  


The feel of her small, cold hand in his. Then stumbling into the light, oppressive after so long in the dark, in the dank, dripping catacombs.  


_Roll away the stone. I'm alive. Or am I?  
_

Jolting awake, Bronski lit his wand and flung on his cloak. He wasn't safe. He couldn't stop, not even for a moment. He picked up his battered pack, stepped out into the night and began to run again.  


***  


June sat at her desk, shredding a stray piece of parchment into tiny squares. All around her, the business of the Ministry ticked by like some ponderous machine. None of the cogs ever truly aware what the other pieces were doing, or even where the mechanism was headed. She swept the shredded pieces into the rubbish bin beside her desk, and distractedly began to sort the papers on her desk into neat stacks. She ought to have been glad to be back, safely back in London and away from Albus and Hogwarts. On Saturday, after their ill-fated conversation in the garden, she'd lolled around in shops all day, while Albus locked himself away in the library. Killing time. Restless, with some indefinable itch. She bought a dozen enchanted miniatures on a whim, then returned them immediately. When she'd met Albus for dinner at the pub, she showed him the one surviving purchase of her distracted day: a hand-carved wizard chess set. Albus suggested an after-dinner match, and smiled far too broadly. As if to say, 'See, everything's perfectly normal.' Only it wasn't.  


She fled back to London the next day, and bullied Hayden into taking her out for an outrageously expensive dinner. He'd taken great pleasure in getting her soused and spinning her around the dance floor. Rather than making her forget, or feel better, it just earned her a wicked hangover. How stupid she'd been. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. When she opened them again, she was looking into the affable face of Milton Bulfinch.  


"Sir!" She started. "I didn't hear you come in."  


"Obviously," the Minister of Magic replied gently. "June, are you all right?"  


"Yes, sir. Of course."  


"Good, because I can't have my star player on the sidelines, can I?" He sat casually on the edge of her desk. "See here, June, I know things are a bit sticky right now. We all feel it."  


He patted her shoulder in an uncharacteristically paternal gesture. "Don't let this get to you. We'll pull through all this unpleasantness all right. You just keep making sure the people's morale stays up, and don't fret yourself."  


June gaped at him. "Sir, I don't really-"  


"June," he smiled, "take an early lunch. And don't come back if you don't feel like it. You deserve an afternoon off."  


"But, sir!"  


"I mean it, Lisbon," he warned, smiling. He got up and headed for the door. "You'd better not be here when I get back."   


Dazed, June looked around for a minute. Then grabbed her bag and left.  


The restaurant she sought refuge in was aggressively art deco, glass and light, in varying shades of pink and gold. It was one of those upper-crusty, martini lunch places filled with tinkling chandeliers, tinkling glasses and tinkling piano music. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the square, the Ministry building dominating the skyline with dark, Gothic stone.   


June waved off the hostess and headed straight for the bar. Long and curving, the bar itself took up the whole center of the restaurant, with tables radiating out from it in concentric circles to the dizzying windows at the edge. Most of the tables were empty. The only ones currently occupied were the farthest from the bar, nestled right up against the glass, affording the diners a spectacular view. June ignored them, threading her way to the nearest barstool. 

She had thought she knew Albus better than she knew herself. They'd practically been in the cradle together. Their mothers had plunked them onto the same baby blanket on summer afternoons by the river. They'd taken _baths_ together for heaven's sake. She should have seen it long before this. June sat down hard on a salmon plush barstool. A bartender scurried immediately over, likely sensing a life story and a large tip by the look on her face.  


"What can I get you, miss?"  


"A Manhattan." June fumbled in her bag to no avail. She looked up. "And a pack of smokes."  


The bartender pushed a slender, rectangular box across the polished surface of the bar. June deftly extracted a cigarette and the bartender offered her a light.  


'Thanks," she said, inhaling and leaning her forehead against the back of her hand.  


The bartender fiddled with bottles, shaker and cracked ice behind the bar. Then slid an Old-fashioned glass carelessly toward her, plunked two cherries into the bourbon, vermouth and bitters and slapped down an engraved cocktail napkin. June slugged back the drink a bit more enthusiastically than even she'd intended. The liquor burned pleasantly in her empty stomach.  


"Whoa, there," the bartender said. "It's not even noon."  


She impaled the hapless man with a look.  


He held up his hands in truce. "Hey, just looking out for you. Don't want you soused before lunch time, reflects badly on me in any case."  
June smoked on in silence.  


The bartender tried another tack. "So now, tell me." He smiled winningly, his teeth very white against his tanned skin. "What's got a pretty girl like you all upset anyway? Your old man? If I've heard one story, I've heard them all-"  


"See here," June said firmly. "I'm not going to be one of those pathetic souls who ends up spilling the tawdry details of their life to some anonymous berk with a bowtie and muddler." She paused. "No offense intended, of course."  


The bartender just smiled. "Miss, if I didn't have a thick skin, I'd have been out of this place years ago." He flipped a bottle of vodka out of its cradle and began to pour. "Besides, I haven't got a muddler -- it cracked yesterday. Split right in two, can you imagine? I have got a jigger, though."   


"Lucky thing. How ever would you, er, jig? Though I don't suppose you can very well muddle anything."  


"Not a thing. Though some things don't need much more muddling, if you take my meaning, miss." The bartender started mixing her another Manhattan before she even thought to ask.  


"Yes, and it was ever so subtle." She stamped out her cigarette, staring distractedly out the window.  


"Miss?"   


She turned back to the bar. The bartender served up her second drink, deftly removing her empty glass.  


"Now, miss," the bartender began again, "I understand your wanting to keep your own counsel, but you're obviously in a bad way. Perhaps if I guessed what the matter was?"  


"Knock yourself out." June lit a second cigarette to keep the second drink company. "Do they intend for that piano music to drive people mad?"  


"I don't even hear it anymore, miss." He leaned against the bar, all toothy smile and slicked back, wavy hair. "Now, let's see. Boyfriend, I'll wager." He tapped a swizzle stick thoughtfully against an empty glass.   


June sipped her drink and said nothing.  


"Hmmm. You're a tough one." He cocked his head to one side, considering. "Does he love you too much or not enough? Both can be a bad show."  


June raised an eyebrow at him and turned to stare out the window again. What was really bothering her, once she admitted it to herself, was that she had encouraged this. Was this some self-destructive bent of hers? _Seduce him, draw him in. Never let any one else have him even if you don't want him_ The idea that she could be so manipulative, so sordid, repulsed her. But she'd known her power over Albus since they were children, hadn't she? She'd cultivated him, made him, kept him in reserve. All the while knowing she could never- Could she? She'd kept him at a distance for so long. Distance. Maybe that was what she needed. Some breathing space, some time to digest this. Better not to do anything hasty. Her friendship with Albus was one of the few constants in her life. She hadn't appreciated before how much it meant to her. Now, faced with the prospect of losing it, she realized the idea terrified her.  


She turned back to the bar. "Tell me," she said, slowly, "are you married?"  


The bartender grinned. "'Fraid not. It's the right lady or no lady for me."  


"And she hasn't come around yet, is that it?"  


"As a matter of fact, she has. But she's having none of it at the moment," he said, his cheeriness faltering for a second.  


June ground her cigarette into the rose quartz ashtray. "So tell me, which would hurt you less: a clean, immediate decision, even if it wasn't the answer you wanted, or some cautious time spent considering the matter, even though that would leave the pair of you in limbo for an uncomfortably long while?"  


"I think that depends on the man, miss. Ask yourself first what he would want. Then, more importantly, figure out what you want." So saying, he tossed her a grin and a casual salute, and loped off to serve a new arrival at the bar.  


June, deciding to take the rest of the afternoon off, paid her tab and stood up. She started toward the exit, then stopped, considering. After a moment, she went back and left the bartender a very large tip.  


***  


Tom sat with his back against the standing stones, his long legs folded into a meditative position, on the cold ground. The wide, gently rolling plain was lit by an autumn moon making it nearly as light as day. He pondered as he sat, his mind beautifully, incredibly clear. The stone circle where he waited had once been used for powerful and ancient magic. Soon it would be again. He indulged in a smile at the thought. A cool breeze stirred the grasses on the surrounding hills, swaying them gently. He could hear everything, from the tiniest animal sound to the death rattle of dry leaves falling to the ground. He could sense the turning of the earth, and the harmonies of the stars and planets. If he listened closely enough, the earth would whisper tales of the past and foretell shadows of the future.   


Tom remained perfectly still. He could be incredibly patient. He'd had to be, had to be in order to survive -- and survive he had. Soon the day was coming when he would never have to bow to the world's wishes again. The whole of creation would bow to him. It was written, it was unalterable. It made him serene with the knowledge of his own power. He had not always possessed this knowledge. He shuddered to think of the times before. So often he'd despaired, a powerless child without friends, or parents, or protectors. Once he'd been told what he was, he'd vowed from then on to protect himself. He needed no one to do it for him anymore. Not only did he have his magic, he had power. Unimaginable power, so much so that his teachers hadn't known quite what to do with him. And then the dreams had started. The dreams guided him, showed him his forgotten past, his future destiny. It was more than he could ever have hoped.  


Had he doubted at all, the last year had been enough to forever quell those doubts. He accomplished the impossible, and proved himself worthy of his birthright. The Chamber had been, however briefly, his, and the creature obeyed his every command. Never before had he felt such exhilaration, such freedom. He never even stopped to consider whether he should follow this path. It simply was his, without question. What else was to be done with this power of his? What did others matter when faced with the movements of fate? He did not kill for love of killing; the people who had died had unfortunately been required to. They had been sacrificed to a higher purpose and that was fitting. He had not been afraid to kill, and he felt no remorse, simply a calm justification. He'd done what was needed. It was who he was and he did not question it.  


He felt magic in the air then, crackling like static electricity, and opened his eyes in time to see three figures Apparate in. Tom remained sitting, savoring the aftertaste of the magic; it tingled on his skin, pleasure/pain skittering up his nerves. The remnants of it on the air tasted addictive, bitter, like black coffee and cigarettes.   


"My lord?" the first boy said as they approached.  


"Hullo, my friends," Tom replied, still not moving. "You're late."  


"I apologize," the same boy said. "We were very nearly caught."  


"Well, then." Tom slowly unfolded his long limbs. "I suppose we'd best start."  


The others nodded enthusiastically and followed him further into the center of the stone circle. They were too eager. Often Tom thought that to them this was simply a lark. If they'd not chosen to follow him they would have occupied their time with some other frivolity. But then, this was only the beginning.  


"Don't you intend to wait for Denis?"  


"He'll be here before we start," Tom said lazily.  


"But how do you"  


With a soft pop a fifth person arrived in the circle.  


"Hello, Tom," Denis Cathcart said. He nodded briefly to the others. Cathcart was older than the other boys, a tall, sandy-haired boy in his final year of school. Here was someone who understood Tom, who took what they were doing seriously. That made him an important ally. He was also much more powerful that the others. That made him dangerous.  


"Ah, Tom," Denis observed, looking around as though confused. "Where's Metis? I thought she was to join us tonight."  


"I told you she would come when the time was right," Tom said a bit coldly, wondering what game Denis was playing this time. "I don't recall saying when that would be."  


"And yet you yourself have insisted that she's important. Have you told her nothing of our plans?"  


Tom narrowed his eyes. He'd wrestled with this problem all summer. Metis would surely join him in anything if he asked, but he'd been reluctant to bring her here, reluctant to tell her everything. His feelings for her were an anomaly in his otherwise clear-cut life. Metis, brilliant herself, almost his equal in power, was the only girl he could ever truly be with. She was wholly his creature, a perfect companion made in his own image: driven, charming and magnetic. She understood him, filled in his empty spaces and complimented his own power. She was entirely his, and he would never love another.  


She would do anything he asked of her. And yet  


"She's not ready yet," he said at last. "The time will come soon, but I will not rush it. She's too important." He gave Denis a look that said, inarguably, that the matter was closed.  


"Shall we begin, then?" Denis carried with him a bulky parcel, which he placed next to the wide, stone table in the center of the clearing. It was a basket, crudely fashioned from rowan switches and lacquered with flammable pitch. Something whimpered and squealed pitifully inside, flashes of frightened eyes just visible between the wicker lattices. A simple silver cup sat on the table already, its contents the color of claret in the bright moonlight.  


"Is this part of it really necessary?" asked one of the other boys, eyeing the basket warily.  


"All appeals require an offering," Denis replied. "Perhaps, William, you'd rather we sacrificed you?"  


"Oh, very funny," William said, irritably.  


"I wasn't joking," the older boy replied coldly.  


"Could you possibly be more trite?" Tom muttered impatiently. "Honestly, Denis, enough of your melodramatics. You don't want to scare them so they're useless." They fanned out to form a loose circle around the stone table, Tom at the head, in line with the principal stone. He flourished his wand, an arc of green sparks falling onto the ruined stone, settling in deep-grooved carvings and illuminating runes hidden to the average eye.  


Denis placed the basket on the stone flat, stepped back and picked up the cup. "My lord," he said to Tom, handing him the cup. A note of defiance colored Denis' voice, gone as quickly as it had appeared. But Tom noticed.  


Tom began to speak, mumbling an ancient incantation in a forgotten tongue, invoking the power of Taranis, the fire-elemental. The ancients believed him a god, but in truth he was simply an opportunistic magical creature that lent his power of fire in return for sacrifices. Once Tom learned to control him, he would be a powerful ally.  


Tom looked up, the others speaking along with him, adding their focus to his own. He flung the contents of the silver cup onto the wicker basket and, extending his wand, cried out, "Incendio." An otherworldly shriek went up as the basket took flame, acrid, black smoke swirling up into the night air. If the ritual worked, Taranis would appear, conjured by their sacrifice. Tom's vision began to cloud, green shadows danced before his eyes, and he wondered if this was supposed to happen. Then, nothing.  


_Damn. It didn't work. Now we'll have to wait until_  


But suddenly darkness dropped over his vision. He couldn't see. He stumbled, his center of balance abruptly gone, his arms outstretched to catch himself if he fell. His mouth tasted of copper. He had the sense of people around him, but couldn't see them. A murmuring of voices like night wind in the trees blew past him and he could feel the reassuring firmness of a floor beneath his feet. The air was cool and damp on his skin, incense or candles burning sweetly, warming the chilled air slightly.   


_Is this he, Master? Is this the boy?_  


An unseen hand passed over his face.  


_He's young to have such power._  


Tom inhaled the heavy, perfumed air and choked. Stifling, searing heat filled his lungs. After a moment's panic, he felt drowsy, as if he could sleep here on his feet. Like drowning, he thought abstractly. Another voice snapped him awake again. An accented voice, an English voice, he realized. Then he knew, without knowing how he knew, that the others had been speaking another language. A language he understood, but not in the thoughtless way he heard snakes. This was something else entirely.  


_Let him go._  


There was a shuffling of crisp material, like dead leaves.  


_But, Master, now we have him here_  


_There's nothing to be done with him now, like this. But at last we have a face. We will deal with him, correctly, in time_  


Tom stumbled backward, reeling as though from a physical blow. He toppled to the ground, striking his head painfully on a sharp rock. He could breathe again. Rolling onto his back, he opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the familiar autumn sky.  


"Tom? Are you all right?" The voices still seemed far away.  


Lying there in the cool, green grass, sticky blood trickling from his temple, Tom swallowed a laugh. A wave of giddiness washed over him and he clutched at the sharp blades of grass to keep from being swept away by it. He closed his eyes again as his friends helped him from the ground. He barely noticed as they limped from the clearing and Apparated back to Hogsmeade. His head was full of swirling notions and half-formed ideas as they picked their quiet way up to the castle.  


When they reached the entrance to their dungeon, Metis was waiting. She'd curled up beneath a blanket in the shadow of a large, black marble statue, motionless as a shadow herself. She stood as they approached. Denis caught her arm and led her into the common room, the others supporting Tom behind them. The room passed in a nauseating blur of green and silver as they hurried him into the dormitory.   


Metis stood in the doorway, backlit from the outer room, Denis' hand still at her wrist. Even through the sick haze, Tom snarled at Denis to let go of her. Metis snatched her wrist out his grip, and came obediently to Tom.  


"I'm sorry," she whispered, twining an arm around his waist and lowering him onto the bed. "Tom, you're hurt."  


He laughed softly. "So I am."  


She shut the hangings around them, dismissing the other boys. "Let me fix this." She reached for him.  


"No." He caught her wrist, tugging her down to lie beside him. "The things I've dreamed tonight, Metis, you would not believe." He pulled her closer. "Such dreams," he said again, and fell headlong into sleep with his hands tangled in her dark hair.  


***  
  



	5. Crying in the Wilderness

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER FOUR  


Chapter Four: A conversation with a snake (it's not who you expect), wizard window shopping and Albus' very first serving of Phoenix Flambé.  


  
CHAPTER FOUR -- CRYING IN THE WILDERNESS  


Behold, I send My messenger  
And he will prepare the way before Me  
For behold, the day is coming,  
Burning like a oven  
And the day which is coming   
Shall burn them up,  
That will leave them neither root nor branch  
Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet  
Before the coming of the great and dreadful day  


(malachi 3:1,2; 4:1,5 from the new king james version)  


  
_I know I'm dreaming._  


Something was screaming in the desert, something desolate and violated in the blasted wastes. Something cowering in the rolling heat, crashed upon by glassy waves, like the blast from a furnace.  


_I am dreaming Aren't I?_  


The sun burnt the sand. A fig tree withered, drying up and blowing away, its shadow dying a half-breath before it. Metis tried to breathe, but the air seared her lungs. The sand burned the soles of her feet, and black scorpions with jeweled, faceted hides chittered and scuttled around her ankles. A bird soared through the cloudless sky overhead, and Metis followed it. The bird, a mourning dove, led her to a stand of trees, where a swarm of insects hovered like a dust cloud. 

There a wild-eyed man crouched by the bank of an anemic river, scorpions at his feet, locusts in his hair. "Think you that I shall be vanquished by a mere child?" he cried aloud. "It is written. But many things are written that are not so."  


The madman raved on as Metis watched. His bloodshot eyes popped, rolling like a frightened horse's. He dragged a distracted hand through his unkempt hair and matted beard and said, "It will not come to pass. I won't let it," he said, then laughed aloud. "Fate may think it has me in its clutches, but I know better. I see all that is to come and have prepared myself."  


"Girl." He reached out a hand to Metis, seeing her for the first time. "I know what you are. Take my hand and I will baptize you with blood."  
Metis shrank back from him. What was this? Images swirled before her as if she stood in the midst of a sandstorm. Locusts and honey, a sticky, drizzling droning in the sandy desert. Paving the way? For what? For whom? She fought the urge to flee.  


When her vision cleared again, the man stood in the midst of the insect swarm, batting ineffectually at the stinging creatures. Bees, Metis realized. Her stomach turned over. An animal shriek of pain split the air, immediately swallowed by the oppressive hush of the arid desert. She turned away, stumbled over her own feet in her sickened haste. The sand burned her palms as she caught herself, feeling as though the shifting sand would suck her under, swallow her whole.   


_I don't want to see these things anymore. I don't know what they mean and I don't want to Tom? Wake me up! Tom!_  


She scrambled to her feet again and found herself face to face with a slender, jade green serpent. It coiled around the branch of one bowed, unhealthy tree, regarding her curiously, its tongue flicking to and fro, something familiar in the knowing expression on its face, as though it could see through her, into her, beyond her.  


The snake broke her gaze and dropped carelessly, gracefully to the ground. It made its belly-crawling way over to the river at double-time. The snake curled its lithe body around the fallen man, who was helpless and bloated with a thousand bee stings. The snake swayed its diamond-shaped head prettily, as though delicately making up its mind. Then, as she watched, it distended its vicious jaws, the inside of its milky mouth glistening in the sun, and swallowed the man whole.  


Sated and basking, the snake turned its limpid eyes on Metis. "There you are, my love," it hissed. "How long have you been watching me?"  


"All my life," said Metis, although unsure why she did so. "Tell me," she asked suddenly, "are you you? Or are you the one that came before?"  
"In this place," hissed the snake, "I am both. As are you. My other self sees in you the face of his dead lover, and wonders whether you share her gifts."  


"I don't know what he means."  


The snake slithered over to her, and suddenly they were seated together on the riverbank. The serpent curled familiarly around her waist, its blunted head in her lap.  


"He is me and I am him, just as you are her and she is you. Can you not feel it? She sees out through your eyes." It twisted up and around Metis' torso, resting its head on her breast.  


"And yet you say she is dead."  


"We all are dead, or sleep, or suffer little deaths each minute. It matters not." The snake's tongue flickered as it spoke, displacing the air around it. Metis could feel the vibrations of disturbed air on the bare skin of her collarbone. "We didn't intend it this way -- and yet it could have been no other. The workings of destiny favor us this time. We loved you before we knew what you were."  


"What am I then?"  


"Don't you know?" The snake seemed amused. It bared its curved fangs in what must have been a laugh. "I think you do know. You're only afraid. Don't be afraid, love. Nothing can hurt you so long as I love you."  


"You always say that," Metis sighed. "It makes me fear for the day you stop."  


"Stop? Never," it said silkily. "Do you really think that feelings so powerful could ever disappear?"  


"No, no. You're right. But you could change, or I could change, or the whole world could change. And then where would we be?"  


"Everything around us could turn to dust and ashes and we would live on. You know that. We aren't like others, my love. We weren't before, and we never will be. If only you'd seen that sooner, none of what has gone before or will come after would be necessary."  


"I don't understand." Metis looked at the river, blinded momentarily by the reflection of harsh sun on the water.  


"You will," said the snake. "This time, it will be different."  


A pause lingered between them, heavy on the dry, crackling air.  


"I would have you with me always," it said, suddenly.  


And bit her.  


***  


Hart Bronski stared into the guttering flames of his low fire. He had begun to imagine that he saw shapes and shadows in the crackling flame. But that was impossible. His grip on his sanity remained as firm as it could be for a man who had seen and done the things he had.  


And now they were coming for him.  


It didn't come as much of a surprise. One got used to this sort of thing in his line of work. Still, he'd never thought he would meet his end this way. Other people maybe, but not him. Well, he'd made his choice, thrown in with the lesser of two evils. Now he was going to die for it. No, that wasn't fair - he would die no matter what choice was made. At least this way, he might be able to achieve a certain amount of peace.  


Bullshit.  


There was no peace to be had in this insanity, not for anyone. Muggle, wizard, civilian, soldier -- every last soul was touched, tormented by this filth, this diseased time they lived in. He stood abruptly and moved away from the fire, scattering fat, pecking hens as he crossed the small yard away from the tiny cottage.  


_Out of the way, chickens. Dead man walking._  


Bronski swallowed an irrational laugh. He would not crack, would not meet his death a raving, pleading fool. Not like others he'd seen. If they kept to the course he expected them to take, they'd be here today. They would find him, burrowed in amongst these simple farmers, and wonder why after more than a month, he hadn't come to them of his own free will. He'd been living on borrowed time and knew it. So he sat on a decaying tree stump, and waited. The hours passed like water through his cupped hands. He couldn't hold them back; they slid past him, time like flowing liquid.  


"Bronski? Is that you?" a voice was calling at the edge of the woods.  


There was a moment when he almost ran. He could have tried to flee, but something in him rebelled, some fundamental part of him that was tired of running, exhausted with waiting. He couldn't delay the inevitable any longer.  


"I'm here, sir!" he heard himself reply in a surprisingly steady voice.  


"Ah, there you are, Hart." William Price emerged from the stand of trees, followed by a handful of witches and wizards, all with the grim bearing that marked agents of the Department of Mysteries. Clean up. Price was known for it. He mopped up the messes that other agents didn't dare touch.  


"Hello, Will," Bronski said carefully. There was still a chance that they would only modify his memory. He wasn't counting on it, but, on the off chance, it wouldn't do to piss Price off.  


"Why don't we go inside and have a little chat, Hart?" Price said.  


"Thanks, but we can chat just fine right here."   


"All right then," Price said. "If that's how you want it."   


It was. In the weeks Bronski had spent imagining this moment, he'd picked the spot for this confrontation carefully. He'd grown to like these northern trees and cold-weather flowers and grasses. There was an empty bird's nest in the crook of an alder branch, just above Price's head, and the air smelled like dry leaves and impending snow. The agents fanned out around Bronski and Price, one of them took out a quill and nodded at Price.  


"All right then," he said again. "We're ready. Go ahead with your report."  


Bronski began with the routine information. His team, their orders, the progress of their investigation into Scoresby's murder. But when it came to their capture, their imprisonment in the catacombs, he choked. He could taste the spice and smoke and incense again, could smell Brona's fresh-spilt blood, hear Reve's cries of pain. It would swallow him. How could he tell? Who would even believe?  


Pushing all that aside, he summoned every last shred of his pride, his professional demeanor, and looked Price evenly in the eye, "Sir, we were right. It was as we suspected."  


"You got a good look at him then?"  


He swallowed the tangle of emotions that lodged themselves inconveniently in his throat and said crisply, "Yes, sir. It was exactly who we thought it would be."  


"And no one survived, save you?"  


"No, sir. No one else. They were all killed by the- they were all killed."  


"All except you. How did you manage that, Hart?" Price's tone was insinuating, but Bronski was past caring.  


"There was a girl. She said- She let me go free. I don't know why. I didn't ask her to."  


Price nodded, and the agent recording the interview folded his parchment and tucked the quill up a sleeve.  


Bronski looked a bit defiantly across at Price. "So what do you plan to do about this? Surely the Ministry can't let this go unchecked. It's our responsibility. We created this m-" He broke off abruptly. The sharp tip of a wand poked against the soft cartilage behind his left ear. A pair of rough hands from behind shoved him to his knees.  


"I am sorry, Bronski," Price said. "You've been a good soldier, but we've got our orders."  


Bronski snorted. He hadn't expected anything else. He closed his eyes, determined to meet his death with dignity.  


"You always were a respectable son of a bitch, weren't you?" Price said softly. "That's a good man."  


The wand tip moved ever so slightly. "Avada Kedavra."  


There was an explosion of green light behind Bronski's eyes, and the painless, nauseating sensation of something bursting in his chest. And then darkness.  


*** 

In London, at the Department of Mysteries, Jack Seward received a package wrapped in brown paper and dirty twine. Under normal circumstances, he would report it immediately to Security in case the package contained a curse, a hex or other powerful dark magic. But Seward was fairly certain he knew where this particular package had come from. He locked his office door and put up several highly illegal wards to keep out any prying eyes.   


He unknotted the twine, removed the heavy paper. Inside lay rolls of parchment neatly packed together and completely undamaged. On top of the ordered, tightly fastened rolls was another piece of parchment, open and face up, covered with Hart Bronski's familiar, cramped handwriting. The corner of the letter was stained dark brown with something that Seward hoped wasn't blood.  


_Jack-  
_

_I'm afraid you've been right about all of this. I've just had word that a group of our people have been spotted near here. I'm assuming it's Price and his bunch. Look, I hope you're wrong and they aren't here to kill me, but just in case, I've put together all my team's notes and everything we salvaged from Scoresby's place in this package. I've got to say, I can see why people don't want some of this stuff to see the light of day. I'm not sure it's going to do you much good to have it, but good luck.  
_

_And, listen, Jack, I just want you to know that you've been a hell of a friend. If for some reason I don't make it back, would you take all my personal stuff to my Mum's in Surrey? Would you mind going personally? I don't want her to find out by post. My Gringotts account should be transferred over to my sister and nephew. She's widowed and doesn't have much savings, and the kid's a hell of a Quidditch player who'll be needing a new broom. And tell Dora that I love her, and I'm sorry.  
_

_But then again, we may be worried for nothing and old Price's just here to take me back to a hero's welcome, ticker tape parade and all. If so, you owe me a pint at the Leaky Cauldron for making me worry and get all sentimental.  
_

_-Hart  
_

Seward sat heavily in his straight-backed chair. Hart Bronski had been a friend of his since school, and if Price was involved there was very little chance of Hart coming back alive.  


One more friend to grieve.  


There had been far too many of them lately. This one, perhaps, he could do something about -- if, of course, he were willing to risk his career and possibly even his life for the truth. He hadn't been sure about that, had felt guilty for asking Bronski to do so, when Seward himself wasn't sure he could step up. He was sure now.  


_This isn't right. It won't stand. I can't let it. _Seward laughed at that thought. The idea of a man in his line of work growing a conscience was, after all, rather funny.  


He carefully began to unroll the parchment, looking for some clue, a starting place. At first the whole situation really looked hopeless. There was just too much here, and Seward was law enforcement, not an academic.  


Hours later, though, after reading through Scoresby's notes, he found a lead. First thing the next morning he was going to pay a visit to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But first, he needed to find out everything he could about a man called Albus Dumbledore.  


***  


"Why do you suppose it is, June darling," Hayden said offhandedly, gazing around the crowded restaurant, "that people like us never seem to eat at home?"  


"Perhaps because it's totally unglamorous to unseal a tin of something by oneself?"  


"Too true. Who wants to see that?" He lit two cigarettes with his monogrammed lighter and handed one to June. "Besides, it's much more diverting to have some entertainment with a meal."  


"Entertainment, Hayden?" June folded her napkin in her lap, and turned curious eyes on him.  


"Why, the people, of course. Look there," he indicated with a subtle hand. "The Malfoys are about to have it out again."  


"How can you tell? Neither of them are saying a word."  


"The calm before the storm, trust me." Hayden waved their waiter over and ordered second cocktails for them both. "Now, see. There, darling, she blows."  


Indeed, Lucinda Malfoy chose that moment to politely, but stiffly, excuse herself from the table, leaving her husband glowering after her. June raised an eyebrow at Hayden, simultaneously impressed and amused. "Do you ever think of using your powers for good instead of evil, Hayden?"  


"Shame on you, darling. Evil is much more fun, you should know that. Besides, where would you be without an outlandish sidekick?"  


June solemnly acknowledged that this was true, as the waiter arrived with fresh drinks. As Hayden talked, she picked distractedly at the tablecloth, sipping idly at her drink.   


Hayden launched into a fresh story about the Malfoys. "chatted up some fresh, young thing at the Foundation benefit. I felt sure Lucinda was going to shove him in the" He paused. "And then Adolf Hitler parachuted in and showed us all how to do the New Jersey Stomp June? Are you even listening?"  


"What?" She colored. "Oh, Hayden. I'm sorry. I wasn't listening."  


"Obviously," he replied coolly, stealing a glance at her.  


"I'm just a little distracted is all."  


"Keep this up, darling, and I'll begin to think you've tired of my company." Hayden sulked, swishing a swizzle stick around his gin and tonic.  


"Really, Hayden" June trailed off, not knowing quite how to finish the sentence she'd begun.  


"What is wrong with you?" Hayden looked impatient. "You've been all cow-eyed for over a month. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were pining over some chap."  


"Why on earth would you say that?" June asked, a bit too sharply.  


"Well," Hayden exclaimed, smiling unpleasantly. "That's it, isn't it? Oh hell, June. Don't go all womanly on me. That's the thing I like about you best."  


"That I'm unwomanly?" She glared at him. "And just where did you get the reputation for being charming?"  


"Now, now. You'll not throw me off the scent that easily. While, it is true that I like nothing better than talking about myself unless it's, perhaps, thinking about myself or doing things for myself you can't play that card on me now." He studied her, an unusual, curious light glowing in his gold-flecked hazel eyes. "Who is it then? At least you owe me the name of the fellow who's stolen my favorite playmate."  


"You've plenty of playthings to keep you occupied," June returned dryly.  


"Playthings, yes. But playmates are much rarer, and more valuable."  


June bristled. The last thing she needed was Hayden's rubbish over this. She turned to him, and said, a bit more tartly than she'd planned, "It's not how you think it is. I'm not mooning over some man. Not like that. I'm just concerned, and the whole problem's begun to eat at me."  


To her irritation, he only seemed amused. "Well, then. Why didn't you tell dear old Hayden all about it to begin with?"  


"Forgive me, Hayden darling, when I say that you are about as sensitive as a troll when it comes to other people's romantic sensibilities."  


He leaned forward, affecting a hurt expression. "I'm told I'm quite a sensitive lover."  


"I am not talking about sex, Hayden," June said, a bit too loudly. The middle-aged couple at the next table looked scandalized. She lowered her voice. "I'm talking about emotions that go slightly deeper than, say, 'How'd you like to ride my broomstick?'"  


"I'm still waiting, darling, to hear who Mr. Sensitive is."  


"Oh, sod off." She ground her cigarette stub viciously into the ashtray.  


"Oh, how very ladylike! Can I quote you on that, Miss Lisbon?" Hayden laughed. "June Lisbon, press advisor to the Minister of Magic, told the world at large today to 'sod off' in no uncertain terms. Sources close to Miss Lisbon cite 'trouble in the bedroom' as the cause of the disturbance."  


"Yes, do sod off, Hayden. And further more"  


He grabbed her hand smoothly. "You can't stay mad at me. I know it for a fact."  


"Really? How precisely do you figure that?"  


"Because you've never been able to before." He leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face. "No woman can."  


"And here I thought you liked me because I wasn't womanly."  


"See!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "That was very nearly a smile, darling."  


"Hayden, you're a haughty, self-indulgent prig"  


"And you love me"  


"And I love you, but I'm not telling you about this." She began to signal around for the check. Hayden tossed back the rest of his drink and let her, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes and feigning a feline sleepiness while clearly attempting to allow his prey to relax into thinking she'd won.  


He scribbled his signature across the check when it came, putting the meal on account. Normally June would have argued the point, but tonight she let him pay out of pique. He retrieved their coats from the cloak check girl and helped June politely into hers. It wasn't until they were walking arm-in-arm through the crisp, sparking winter night that he brought the subject up again. They passed Lulu's, tiny dots of moisture in the air crystallizing and sparkling like diamonds beneath the street lamps. Hat in hand, Hayden stopped in front of Amesbury's storefront display window, already decked out for Christmas. Sugar plum fairies danced behind the glass, twirling around wooden nutcrackers that turned into handsome princes with the right spell; while sword-bearing mice jousted in a miniature enchanted forest filled with dancing snowflakes.   


The fairy light reflected on his aristocratic face, turning his dark hair into a gold halo from behind when he turned to look at her. "Tell me, June, or I swear I shall commit seppuku with one of those mouse swords." He indicated the display window with a casual hand.  


"Good luck acquiring one. The store appears closed." She smiled at him in the half-light.   


"Then I'll be forced to use whatever is at hand." He tugged his ivory cashmere scarf tight around his neck like a noose, and looked at her pitifully. "I'm not fooling, darling. I shall do something rash."  


Snow was beginning to fall in soft, large flakes around them, the scent of cold mingling with wet wool as the flakes melted on Hayden's charcoal grey overcoat.  


"Honestly, Hayden, why on earth does it matter to you?"  


"Sheer bloody-mindedness?" He grinned lopsidedly. "Or perhaps, darling, this is my clumsy and inappropriate way of showing I care."  


That gave her pause.  


Smiling wickedly, he added, "Or it's just a ploy to find out blackmail-worthy secrets. One can never have too many of those." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Fine. You won't tell me. Then I'll guess. Now who would you be protecting from me?" Realization dawned across his face. "Oh, no! Not old Mr. Professor!"  


She turned away from the shop window, the world plunging into shadow again, and headed up the street.  


"June! Darling?" Hayden tagged after her. "Oh, not him, anyone but him."  


He caught up to her at the corner, quietly threading her arm through his again. He looked down apologetically once, opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. So they walked on in silence, the falling snow swallowing up their tracks as they went.  


***  


She was dreaming again. But it wasn't one of those dreams.  


Metis felt lately all she did was sleep and dream. The cold and snow outside, the crackling fires and long afternoons lulled her, tempted her into sleep. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, drowsiness tugged at her, never caring where she was, what she was doing. Except when she was with Tom. Tom was like black coffee, like electricity, like breath in her lungs.  


Her conscious self knew that she was in the common room, by the fire. Her mind's eye could see her book, face down on the rug, could see the thick, soft wool blanket she'd wrapped herself in. She was aware of the heat from the fire on her face and the murmur of other voices at the edges of the room. But her subconscious replayed scenes from the book she'd been reading before falling asleep. Ladies in silks and satins, standing in a long line, curtsied properly to their dance partners as an orchestra struck up a popular tune. Metis found herself curtsying as well, only to discover that she didn't know the steps. The music flowed around her as she tried to mimic the other dancers. She stumbled, her partner catching her arm. She looked up into his face, a bit afraid of what she might find there.  


Tom looked down at her, candlelight flickering behind him, casting odd shadows on his familiar mouth. "Just follow. I won't let you fall."  


And the dream began to change. With a sickening familiarity, the voices in the common room began to recede. She could no longer sense the fire's heat or feel the wool blanket beneath her fingers. She was lost again, lost in the cold vacuum between her dreams, where light was darkness, where pictures had voices, and screams were symphonies.   


_Wake up. Wake up_, she chanted to herself.  


A hand, warm and solid, rested on her chest, fingers stroking her collarbone. She reached up and grabbed hold of it, letting its reality pull her out of the dream completely. She opened her eyes to see Tom watching her curiously, her hands wrapped tight around his slender wrist.  


"How did you get in here?" she asked, disoriented.  


"Do you think anything could ever keep me from you?" His voice was soft, strangely curious, as though the idea of a barrier between them was completely foreign to him.  


The room lay in thick silence, save for the crackling of the fire, and they were alone. She must have slept longer than she'd realized.  


"You're really here then? This isn't a dream?" She flung her arms around him, she could hear the pounding of his heart in his chest, feel the heat coming off his skin.  


"Of course I'm not a dream," he said softly. "Why should you think that?"  


"I've been afraid to tell you," she said, her words muffled against the crisp cotton of his shirt. "I fear I'm going mad."  


"Come here." He pulled her to her feet, unwrapping the blanket gently from her shoulders and smoothing her tangled hair. He led her away from the fire and to a low sofa, scattered with abandoned books and papers. The other Ravenclaws had likely gone down to dinner. "What could possibly frighten you, Metis? Haven't I always told you how safe you are with me?"  


"Oh, but, TomThe things I see." She shut her eyes tight, tears threatening to spill through her lashes. "The things I see. I don't understand them, but I- I think they're real."  


He regarded her curiously, surprised but almost pleased. "Have you always had these dreams, Metis?"  


"Yes, but now I have them so much more often." She hesitated. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"  


He kissed her warmly. "No. If I'm right, there's nothing wrong with you at all." He looked at her again with that expression of pleasant surprise. "If I'm right," he said again wonderingly, almost to himself. "How perfect. I didn't intend it this way -- but here you are."  


"Tom?" Metis said. "What do you mean?"  


"Don't worry. I'll tell you. But I must be sure first." He cupped her face with a gentle hand. "There are things I've been afraid to tell you as well About myself, about my family. Well, my mother, really."  


"Tom, you should know I don't care about any of that. It's you I care about."  


"But that's just it, Metis. It all has to do with me -- who I am now, who I'll become. I've wanted to tell you everything, but first I needed to know I could trust you."  


Metis closed her eyes. "This again? How can you doubt my love for you, my loyalty to you? You could do anything, say anything, become anything and I wouldn't leave you. I couldn't leave you. It would kill me."  


He caught her face in both of his hands. "Oh Metis, how I hoped" He kissed her, pushing the books and papers from between them. An inkbottle tipped over, spilling scarlet ink over his hand. Heedless, he caught her face again, leaving a smear of crimson at the corner of her mouth.   


She wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Tell me then, Tom. I want to know." She closed her eyes as he dragged his long fingers through her hair. "Tell me everything. No more secrets. Keeping secrets from you is impossible for me. It hurts."  


"All right, Metis." He rested his chin on top of her head, his arms so tight around her she could feel the pulse at his wrists. "I'll tell you all you want to know. But hear this first, once you know these things, there is no going back. You have to be sure I'm what you want, for always. Once you know me, really, I can't ever let you go."  


"Why should I ever want to be let go of?"  


He looked down at her, tipping her face up toward him. "People abandon the one they thought to love. It's true. It happens all the time. If you ever did that to me, I couldn't forgive it. Do you know what I mean by that? Do you understand?"  


"I think I do."  


"I will die loving you, Metis. Will you die loving me?"  


"Yes, of course. But you already knew that."  


Some indefinable emotion flared behind his dark eyes. "I suppose I did, didn't I?" he breathed, and kissed her again.   


***  


Jack Seward hadn't been to Hogwarts in years. The castle loomed like a hulking, grey beast, its halls filled with pushed-aside memories of youth, memories that had lain undisturbed for years. Seward liked it that way. Now, faced with the school again, he suddenly felt- well, he didn't know what he felt, and that was more disturbing than anything.  


He'd been to see Dora the night before. She'd taken the news about Hart with surprising calm. Better almost than Seward himself. Her engagement ring had caught the lamplight while she made the two of them coffee, and it had taken all of his strength not to walk over and embrace her, to tell her to stop being so damn brave and rational.  


Seward reached the massive doors and knocked briefly, only to be immediately ushered inside by a rumpled, youngish professor, who acknowledged that, yes, they had received his owl and then led him up to the headmaster's office.  


"Ed Halley, by the way," the young professor said.  


"Jack Seward. Nice to meet you, Professor."   


Halley didn't look to be much older than the sixth and seventh years he taught. He had that same nervous, bookish air that Seward associated with prefects and Head Boys from his own school days. Halley handed Seward deftly over to the headmaster, who plied him with tea and biscuits while Halley fetched Dumbledore from his morning class.  


"So," said the headmaster, in what he likely assumed was a casual manner. "What does the Ministry want with our Albus? He's not in any trouble, is he?"  


"I can promise you, Professor Dippet, that's he's not in any trouble." Not yet, Seward thought, wryly. _Though I'll do my damnedest to drag him there before the day is through, won't I?_  


"Ah, Albus. There you are," Dippet said, standing up as the door opened. "This is Jack Seward, from the Department of Mysteries."  


At that, Dumbledore raised an eyebrow just perceptibly. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Seward. I'm Albus Dumbledore. I understand you wanted to see me."  


"Yes, Professor. Might we talk in your office?"  


With a sidelong glance at Dippet and Halley, Dumbledore replied, "Of course. This way."  


The two men walked in slightly uncomfortable silence down the long, familiar corridors. Every so often, Seward would catch a glimpse of something he recognized, jogging some silly memory. He shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts. He couldn't be distracted by the past today, he needed all of his focus in the here and now.  


"Here we are," Dumbledore said, opening a heavy oak door.  


"Can I get you some tea?" he asked once they were inside. Dumbledore motioned to a chair in front of his desk before taking a seat himself.  


Seward shook his head. "Let's dispense with all that. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you here. I know you were working with Lee Scoresby on that translation project of his. I also know that it got him killed." Seward looked at the other man evenly. "What do you have to say about that?"  


Dumbledore appeared unfazed. "Surely you can't be suggesting that I was involved somehow."  


"No. I am, however, suggesting that you know more about this than you're letting on."  


"Well," the professor returned mildly, "no one has yet asked me anything about Scoresby, or his project. No one from your department has shown the least interest in what I might or might not know until yourself, Mr. Seward."  


"Fair enough," Seward replied. "You're aware there was an investigation, though?"  


"I'd heard rumors."  


Seward shifted in his chair. "Then have you heard this one? The team we sent to Albania never made it back. I have reason to believe they're all dead."  


Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, and the tension in the room shifted ever so slightly. "And why tell me this? I can't imagine that's information that the Ministry wants made public."  


"Oh, you won't be telling anyone," Seward returned, with the casual, practiced air of a hardened veteran. Intimidating people came easily after all these years, though deep down he suspected Albus Dumbledore was not a man to be strong-armed. "And I'm telling you because I believe you're our best hope for getting to the bottom of this mess. You're the only one left alive who's familiar with Scoresby's work and what he was looking for in Albania." He paused. "So what I need to know is will you work with me on this?"  


"On what? You still haven't told me what you hope to accomplish."  


"I should think that would be obvious. I want to find out who murdered Scoresby, and who murdered our investigative team."  


"So all you really need from me is information on Scoresby's work?"  


Seward sat back, measuring the other man. "There is something else, but I need to be sure we have an understanding before I go any further."  


In turn, Dumbledore seemed to be sizing Seward up. After a few moments he nodded. "I'll do my best to help you with any information I can on Scoresby's work and plans. Until I know more, I can't promise any further than that."  


Seward nodded. He was taking an enormous risk here; one that he couldn't be sure would pay out. But he'd come this far already, and wasn't about to turn back now. He dug into his satchel and tossed all of Scoresby's Albanian notes onto Dumbledore's desk. "This is what I need you for. These were recovered from Scoresby's residence in Albania. I can't make head nor tail of them." Dumbledore was already flipping interestedly through the mass of papers.   


"All of this," Seward indicated the parchment with a sweep of his hand. "All of this is completely off the record. Do you understand? If either of us were to be caught with these documents the consequences would be dreadful."  


The young professor studied Seward briefly, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Why are you doing this?" Dumbledore asked at last.  
"Because the man who led that team was a friend of mine, and I'd hate to see the people who killed him get away with it," Seward said, mostly truthfully.  


"I see," Dumbledore nodded. "I can understand that. I'll do everything in my power to help you."  


***  


Albus didn't trust that Seward was telling him the whole truth, but at this stage it didn't matter. He couldn't pass up the opportunity for access to Scoresby's research. Besides, he'd held back quite a bit of information from Seward himself. Seward had taken his leave abruptly, and Albus spent the rest of the morning rifling Scoresby's notes and pacing his office, deep in thought. He was doing just that when his ponderings were unceremoniously interrupted by a hacking, wheezing cough from the corner of the room.  


"Oh, poor old fellow." Albus crossed over to where the scarlet phoenix slumped on its perch, looking for all the world like it had a walloping hangover. The bird regarded him with a teary eye and thrust its head up underneath Albus' cupped palm. He stroked the phoenix's balding head, making sympathetic noises until, without warning, the bird squawked and burst spectacularly into flame.  


Albus yelped and jumped back. He'd known what to expect, of course, but he'd assumed there would be some sort of sign before the old bird went up like so much dry straw. Sucking on one burnt finger, he backed away toward his desk while the raging fireball burned itself down to a pile of silver ash. After a heartbeat, a tiny dun-colored beak poked its way out of the ash, followed by an egg-shaped head and beady silver eyes.  


"Welcome back to the world, old boy," Albus smiled, leaning down and scooping up the newly reborn phoenix. It piped a half-hearted musical note at him before collapsing back against his palms, its tiny, naked chest heaving with exertion.  


"I know, old fellow. That can't have been pleasant for you."   


The phoenix fixed him with a disapproving gaze.  


"Now what's this? You can't be cross with me. That's the first time I've ever seen a phoenix reborn. Did I make some faux pas, old thing?"  


The bird pecked him weakly on the flat of his hand.  


"This is very curious, indeed. I'm sorry you're put out with me. I haven't the slightest clue what's to be done."  


"He wants you to name him," said an amused voice from the door.  


"Name him?" Albus' head snapped up. "Oh hello, Brione. Whatever do you mean, name him?"  


Brione Ivey, the Herbology professor leaned against his half-open door, arms crossed. "Just what I said. You haven't had him long, have you?"  


"No. Just a few months."  


She smiled at him as she would a sweet, but slow pupil. "Well, he's a phoenix. This is his first Burning since you became his master. So he needs a new name." She crossed the room, closing the door softly behind her. She tossed her dark hair over one shoulder as she walked, dark but with a perfect streak of silver through the middle, giving her an air of wisdom even though she was only a handful of years older than Albus himself.  


They laid the little phoenix gently down on Albus' desk. He could have sworn the bird looked gratefully at Brione, and his suspicions were confirmed when the phoenix nibbled affectionately on her fingers.  


"It appears you've made a complete conquest of the little fellow," Albus observed.  


"Hmm. I should always be so lucky." She stroked the phoenix underneath its beak; it closed its eyes. If it could have sighed in contentment, Albus believed it would have.  


"So, Albus," Brione said, clearly enjoying herself. "What shall you call him?"  


"Oh well I'm completely unprepared." He shrugged. "I've no earthly idea."  


She looked at him, laughter in her eyes. "Come now. There must be something. An old school chum to immortalize? A favorite name for a son? Something."  


"I could name him after my father, I suppose."  


"What was your father's name?"  


"Cronus," Albus replied.  


Brione arched a thin eyebrow, then looked down at the bird. "Somehow, I think not."  


"Well, then. I don't know. Ask him."  


"Oh, now. It doesn't work that way. You've got to pick the name."  


Albus cast around the room, hoping desperately for something to jog his balky imagination. A potted plant -- no. A bust of Beethoven -- close, but no. A globe, an hourglass His eyes fell on the calendar. November 5.  


"Guy Fawkes."  


"What?"  


"It's Guy Fawkes Day. That's what I'll name him after."  


Brione looked at him in disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You are going to name your phoenix, a majestic bird, millennia old, after Guy Fawkes. After a Muggle madman who tried to blow up both James I and Parliament."  


"Yes, I believe I will. Why not?"  


"Other than the obvious?"  


"After all," Albus grinned, "Fawkes, gunpowder -- fire, phoenix." He looked down at the phoenix. "Is that all right with you, old boy? Fawkes?"  


"Suit yourself," Brione smiled indulgently, tapping Fawkes gently on the beak. "I came to fetch you for lunch, you know," she said, returning her attention to Albus. "I know you'd rather be up here buried in dusty books, but the tiny slice of maternal instinct in me won't allow you to go without a proper meal."  


"You? Have maternal instincts for something other than Mandrakes? I refuse to believe it."  


Brione sighed heavily. "Lunch, Albus. Now." She turned as they moved to leave. "Goodbye, Fawkes."  


***  



	6. Mood Indigo

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER FIVE  


Summary: New Year's Eve, 1943 -- A posh New Year's Eve party, my very first author cameo, Tom learns that he has some very dangerous enemies and tragedy rings in the New Year.  
  


CHAPTER FIVE -- MOOD INDIGO  


You go to my head  
And you linger like a haunting refrain  
That I find spinning round in my brain  
Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne  
Oh, the thrill of the thought   
That you might give a thought   
To my plea casts a spell over me  
Still I say to myself   
Get a hold of yourself  
Can't you see that it never can be?  


(you go to my head armstrong/coots/gillespie 1957)  
  


New Year's Eve, 1943  


"June dear, do hurry up or you'll be late," Rhea Lisbon's voice carried down the corridor, bringing with it the memories of a dozen other holidays. Alone in her room, June could hear the sounds of laughter from the foyer downstairs as her parents prepared to leave.  


"We'll see you at the Middletons' then, darling," her mother's voice floated up the stairs, mingled with the clack of shoes on marble. June leaned toward the door, listening to soft sounds of their departure -- the rustle of heavy cloaks and snick of a door sliding home.  


June tugged a silver-backed brush through her hair, remembering Christmases and New Years past. One memory in particular stood out against the others. Mother calling from downstairs on Christmas Eve. A seven year old June tugging at her fussy robes and pin curls, scuffing her over-polished shoes as she skipped down to the parlor. The high-ceilinged room filled with laughing grown-ups, glasses in hand, and an enormous Christmas tree in the candlelit corner. A skinny, cowlicked Albus holding her chubby hand as the Yule Log was lit  


_Damn. Why can't I stop thinking about him? _She shook her head. The answer was simple: he was an integral part of her life, and always had been. The last week had provided some reprieve, the social engagements and distractions of the holidays had been enough to keep her mind off her personal life for the most part. The Dumbledores had come to dinner on Boxing Day. Albus had not joined them. The thought left June feeling slightly sick. He was sure to be at the Middletons' this evening; there would be no avoiding him any longer.   


She faltered, lipstick halfway to her mouth, leaning against the vanity as though suddenly exhausted. How had things gotten so complicated? She loved him, there was no denying that, but she didn't trust herself to be with him. It couldn't work; it would be disastrous for them both. But this distance between them hurt her, and she knew it must be hurting him. Distractedly, June waved her wand over her hair, tucking pins into place. 

She smoothed the sleeves on her well-cut, burgundy robes, and finished applying her lipstick. With one last glance in the mirror, she left the room.  
She walked down the wide, curving stair, trailing a hand on the polished banister. Her parents' house, still gaily decorated for Christmas, seemed strangely empty this year. She paused, shaking off that feeling and arranging her features into a smile as she opened the door to the parlor.  
Hayden slouched in a wide-armed, wing chair, engaged in a ferocious staring contest with his gin and tonic. His neglected cigarette had burned nearly to his knuckles and was threatening to leave a whopping great scorch mark across June's mother's hand-woven Oriental rug. June crossed the room, rescued the cigarette and tapped it into a marble ashtray.   


"Hayden," she placed her hands on her hips, "what is _wrong_ with you tonight? You're not getting maudlin on me, are you? If we end tonight with drunken, earnest promises to be better people in the coming year, I hold you ultimately responsible."  


Hayden looked up at last, and grinned. "No chance. We'll never be better people, darling." He stood, catching her wrists and spreading their arms wide. "You look lovely." He released her, motioning in a circle. "Spin about so I can get a proper look."  


She complied, smiling. "You don't look half-bad yourself. I can't remember the last time I saw you in proper robes."  


Hayden brushed imaginary lint from the sleeves of his charcoal grey dress robes. "I know. Muggle clothing has thoroughly corrupted me, but I can still don wizard-wear for the right occasions." He grinned wickedly. "And I pull it off better than most, if I do say so."  


"Oh, yes. You're irresistible." June laughed. "Not that you need any encouragement, of course."  


Hayden crossed the room and scooped up their cloaks. He twirled June's around her shoulders and fastened the clasp beneath her chin, then flung on his own, twitching it rakishly over one shoulder and smiling winningly. "Well, my darling, shall we go? 1944 awaits us."  


June slipped her arm through his. "Thank you, Hayden."  


He raised an eyebrow. "What on earth for?"  


She shrugged, resting a hand softly on the swell of his bicep. "Oh, the usual. Irritating me, making me laugh. Being an incredibly wonderful friend."  


"Now who's maudlin?" With that, he tugged her into the entryway and out the massive front doors, where his superbly kept-up 1933 Bentley was gleaming impressively in the moonlight. Hayden held the door open for her, smiling lazily. "Well, at least, we're seeing the New Year in in style."  


***  


The orchestra was tuning up when they arrived, the squeaks, squawks and twangs echoing oddly off the vaulted ceiling and immaculate marble floor. Servants in crisply pressed jackets and aprons, loaded down with platters, bottles and bowls, hurried past, narrowly avoiding the guests who were quite simply not supposed to be there yet. A harried, pinch-faced sommelier was overseeing the construction of several champagne fountains in preparation for the stroke of midnight, while Mrs. Middleton herself clucked and fussed over the flowers presented for her inspection by a herringbone-clad manservant.   


_We're bloody early_, Albus thought, and there was nothing he hated more. His companion for the evening, however, possessed a reputation for being almost fanatically punctual. Which was why they were standing in the lavish ballroom of Brantley and Edina Middleton's Hampshire estate at 7:45 when the party wasn't due to start until 8 o'clock. The chandeliers tinkled above them, mingling with the first strains of Strauss from the orchestra and the machine gun pop-popping of champagne being uncorked.   


"Oh, Albus!" Edina cried, crossing the wide expanse of marble floor, their reflections shimmering dreamlike on the polished surface. "You are such a brave dear! Being the first to arrive."  


"Terrified we'd miss out on something important, weren't we?" He smiled, taking Edina's hand.  


"Oh, you're such a card. Always have been." She turned her attention to the young woman on Albus' arm. "Now you, dear, must come with me. I promised Brantley he'd have you all to himself before you're mobbed by everyone, and I mean to see that he does."   


The two women hurried off to the drawing room, and Albus was alone. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his robes and tried not to slouch against the wall, for fear of upsetting any of the elaborate decorations. He was nearly ready to walk back outside and light up his pipe, when the Middleton's daughter, Ruth, came clattering into the ballroom, her face flushed, her jade green dress robes swaying with her movements. A group of laughing, young women followed at her heels.  


"Oh!" She came to an abrupt stop, the other girls nearly crashing into her. "Oh, Professor!" she laughed, turning slightly pink and eliciting a ripple of giggles from her followers.   


"Hello, Ruth," he said, nodding gravely. The girls giggled.  


"Hello," Ruth replied. More giggles. "We, ah, didn't expect that anyone would be here yet."  


"Well, we are rather early. Just pretend I'm not here."  


The girls moved to the other side of the ballroom, making soft, squealing exclamations about the decorations, the flowers, the twinkling chandeliers. Every so often one of them would glance over at Albus and giggle. And, so, a sort of uneasy equilibrium was established between them.  


After a bit, his companion slipped back inside the ballroom, making her way over to him with an apologetic look. In their chosen corner, the girls tore their attentions away from the centerpieces to gawk at the new arrival.  


"Hello!" Ruth, grasping the hand of a round-faced blonde girl, breathed, "We're were so sorry you didn't win. We cheered for you!"  


"I'm sure you don't remember," said the blonde, "but we met you last month at Rosemund Gadson's tea-"  


"I remember," the older woman said, with a sidelong glance at Albus. "It's so nice to see you again." She disentangled herself from the girls, and glided over to him.  


"I'm so sorry," she smiled against the curve of his ear. "I absolutely have to go have a look at Brantley's new broomstick. He's most insistent." Her breath tickled his skin as she laughed. "Will you be all right here by yourself?"  


He turned and smiled down at her. "I'll be fine. I think I'll go have a quick smoke and get out of my students' hair, though. I seem to be making them uncomfortable."  


"Maybe." She smiled, glancing over to the knot of young women, several of whom were casting appraising looks over the couple. "But not, perhaps, for the reason you think." She squeezed his hand, a casual promise that she'd be back to take care of him shortly, and ducked out of the ballroom again.  


As soon as she had gone, Albus retreated to the relative safety of the front walk, tapping sweet tobacco into his pipe as he paced the flagged stones. A tiny blue flame flared at the end of his wand, casting odd shadows in the wintry moonlight. He was still standing there at 8:15, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe on the front walk and watching the comings and goings of the other guests. The windows of the huge house glowed golden in the dark, the orchestra playing loudly now. He supposed he should go in, but something kept him standing there, almost as if he were waiting to see someone. He pushed that thought abruptly from his head. But, truth be told, he did want to see June, and he knew she wouldn't come to him of her own accord. So was he standing out here in the cold hoping for a glimpse of her? He shook his head and leaned back against the rough stone of the wall.  


When she did arrive it was, not surprisingly, fashionably late and on Hayden Fairborne's arm. Albus turned away as they glided up the steps and through the front doors. Resigned, and a bit disgusted with himself, he knocked the tobacco from his pipe and went inside himself. He crossed the foyer. Couples were shrugging out of heavy, finely-woven cloaks, the men shaking hands heartily and the women smiling courteously and pretending to remember one another's names.  


While he'd been outside, the ballroom had filled with guests, the clatter of glasses and chatter of voices as loud as any air raid siren. Albus looked above their heads to the high, vaulted ceiling and heavy, crystal chandeliers, watching as winged sprites zoomed across an enchanted clock face, suspended high above the center of the crowd, ticking off the seconds until midnight. One sprite dipped close to him, sprinkling shimmery dust across his upturned face. He smiled at the pixie, who smiled back, blushing, before zooming away on her tiny wings, leaving a trail of gold and silver in her wake.  


Albus felt other eyes on him, and turned to meet them. June was watching him over the shoulder of a well-dressed man, who was gesturing excitedly about something to Hayden Fairborne. Her dark eyes widened and she tore her gaze away quickly when she realized she'd been caught staring. He started toward her, suddenly desperate to speak with her, to settle this business. This is absurd. We can't even look at one another. But she'd been the one avoiding him; all he'd done was try to respect her wishes Or had he? Had he just been using that as an excuse? Being angry with her seemed much easier than putting himself in a position to be hurt again. He faltered in his stride, unsure whether to keep going, and it proved his undoing.  


"Albus!" A friendly hand caught him on the back, and turned to see John Knightley, an old friend of his father's. "How are you, boy? We haven't seen you in ages!"  


"I'm fine, sir. Wonderful to see you again," he said distractedly, inching away to make his escape. Finished with their conversation, Hayden was leading June toward the bar, talking cheerfully over his shoulder and already balancing a drink in either hand.  


"Isabella! Come here, dear. It's Albus, Cronus and Ariadne's youngest boy." A formidable-looking elderly woman in a lorgnette joined old Knightley, and proceeded to grill Albus on everything from the health of his mother, to his job, to why he hadn't settled down with a nice young woman yet.  


"So lovely to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Knightley. Really lovely. You must come to dinner in Town sometime; my mother would love it. I really do have to dash though. I promised Edina the next dance," he lied, "and it wouldn't do at all to have our hostess cross with me." Finally free, he broke through a group of teenagers loitering by the champagne fountain, and scanned the crowd for June but she'd disappeared.  


"Well, well, well If it isn't my old friend, the professor," a cultured voice drawled lazily from behind him.  


Albus turned around, startled, nearly knocking into a cocktail table as he did so. Hayden Fairborne stood before him, grinning casually and holding a glass of champagne in a careless hand. June was nowhere to be seen.  


"Hello again, Hayden," Albus said, mustering a polite smile. Something about this man just irritated him, much to his chagrin. They stood in silence for a moment, each sizing the other up, and Albus was put in mind of a pair of wolves, circling, deciding whether to challenge for supremacy. The thought struck him as so absurd, that he nearly laughed aloud. What an unlikely pair of alpha males: the bookish professor and the foppish playboy.  


"I trust you had a pleasant holiday," he said instead.  


"Of course. But I always have a good time," Hayden replied, glibly. He made a show of scanning their immediate area and said, "So. Here alone, I see."  


"Not quite," said a voice from behind them. Albus felt a small hand curl around his arm, and looked down into a pair of dark eyes. An attractive young woman gazed up at him, then smiled at Hayden. She was exceptionally pretty and Hayden clearly noticed. His entire manner changed.  


"Sorry, Albus," she said, pushing a lock of bobbed, black hair from her face. "I got tied up talking to Castor Smith from the Department of Magical Games and Sports."  


Hayden smiled winningly. "Aren't you going to introduce me, Professor old boy?"  


"Yes, of course. Hayden Fairborne, this is Jee Hyung Lee."  


She smiled and reached out her free hand to clasp Hayden's. "Please, call me Gaea. It's easier."  


"Gaea Lee? The Quidditch player?"  


Gaea smiled, tilting her chin up at Hayden. "Guilty as charged, Mr. Fairborne. I'm flattered you recognize me."  


"I'd be an ass if I didn't," he grinned. "Star of England's team and all that. I hear any Cup hopes we have are due largely to you."  


Gaea raised an eyebrow. "I think people give me too much credit."  


"So," Hayden said, "how do you know the old professor here?" He favored Albus with a look that clearly gave his opinion of such an association.  


"Oh, Albus and I are old friends. We met in Seoul several years ago while I was visiting with my grandparents."  


"Indeed. Albus here seems to be rather rich, and fortunate, in old friends."  


Gaea glanced between the two men and, coming to some sort of realization, pursed her lips. "Yes, well. I'm rather fortunate to know him as well."  


"Tell me, Miss Lee," Hayden said, grabbing her hand again. "Would you do me the honor of the next dance?"  


Gaea smiled. "Of course. You don't mind, Albus? I hate to abandon you again so soon."  


"No, no. That's fine. Go right ahead." He smiled down at her. "Just don't let him make off with you."  


She arched that penciled eyebrow again. "However do you mean that?"  


Albus blushed, but before he could reply, she said, "Oh, don't be so scandalized. I've no intention of allowing anyone to make off with me tonight."  


"I'm not sure whether I should be pleased to hear that or not."  


"If you're ready then, Miss Lee?" Hayden said, tugging her toward the dance floor.  


"I'll be with you in a moment." She favored Hayden with that trademark smile of hers, the smile full of promise and attention. She was awfully good at that.  


She leaned in close to Albus. "Perhaps you should take this opportunity to have a word with that blonde you've been staring at all evening."  
Albus started. "Gaea, I'm so sorry"  


She shook her head, then looked up at him, wearing an expression he'd never seen on her face. "I can't say I'm too happy about it. But this way I'll be the gracious one. That may serve me well in the future." She smiled slightly, then laid her hand on his wrist. "And if she breaks your heart Well, you know where I'll be."  


***  


Metis stood against one of the tall, arched windows, very aware of Tom's hand on the small of her back. He stroked a soft, nervous rhythm on her skin through the thin fabric of her robes. She could sense how uncomfortable he was, but knew that no one else would notice. Outwardly he was charming and relaxed as always.  


He'd resisted coming tonight, and only Metis' entreaties had changed his mind. Weeks before, he'd announced his intention to refuse Ruth's invitation, much to Metis' confusion. They'd argued softly and briefly about the matter, hidden behind a large bookshelf in a corner of the library.  


"How can I, Metis?" Tom said, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I don't even understand why I've been invited."  


"You've been invited because this is your world now. Ruth adores you." She smiled slightly. "Everyone adores you."  


He didn't return the smile. "I wouldn't know how to act, or what to say." His eyes hardened. "You know how I grew up, where I come from."  


"Tom, none of that matters anymore to anyone except you."  


An unreasonable flash of fury crossed his face. "Of course it matters." He grabbed her by the shoulders. "It matters. You know exactly why it matters."  


"Tom." She closed her eyes, half from the pain of his grip, half in pleasure at having his body pressed against hers. "You know that's not what I mean. You and I we know who you are, why we shouldn't ever forget"  


"Who we are, Metis. Who we are," he whispered into her hair.  


"Of course. We. Always we." She pressed closer to him, inhaling his scent. Tom had explained everything -- about his mother, about his destiny, about the things he'd done and the things he would have to do -- with his calm, quiet conviction, so that when she was with him it all made sense. She knew she should probably be frightened, knew in a secret part of her heart that this was dangerous, but then, she'd known that about Tom from the first. He frightened her, but not enough to shake her love for him. If anything, it made it stronger.  


"I'm not going," he murmured, as she slipped her fingers under the collar of his shirt to caress the soft skin there.  


"Please, Tom. Just think about it some more before you decide."  


He had, and here they were. Why he'd changed his mind, she couldn't be sure. But she was pleased he had, not so much because she wanted to come, but because of what it meant for Tom. His hand moved from her back as he turned to speak with a slight, dark-haired boy, a Slytherin fifth-year whose name Metis couldn't remember. 

"I'll be back in a minute," Tom whispered against her ear, and followed the other boy away from their group leaving Metis alone with Ruth, Orva and Cara.  


"Is there anything you don't see drama in, Orva?" Cara asked acidly, looking pointedly at her.  


"Well, I still say he's in the midst of an unhappy love affair. Just look at that expression!" Orva said a bit defensively.  


Metis followed Ruth and Orva's gaze -- they were watching Professor Dumbledore, who in turn looked forlornly on as the blonde Metis had met at Lulu's danced past in the arms of a sharply-dressed man with grey-streaked black hair. The Minister of Magic, Metis realized abruptly. She blinked. She'd no idea Ruth's parents were that rich.  


"He's here with Gaea Lee, you know," Orva said in an awed voice, still staring at their Transfiguration professor. "I mean, can you imagine? She's famous."  


"He's not handsome really," Ruth observed, tilting her head to view the professor from a better angle. "But there is somethingWhy else would he be constantly surrounded by such elegant women?"  


"Oh, aren't you just the limit," Cara sighed long-sufferingly. "You don't want something until you see that someone else does."  


"In this case, several someones," Orva pointed out.  


"Well," Ruth said, flipping a hand through her long, light brown hair. "How else is one supposed to know if something's worth having?"  


Cara opened her mouth to say something, but a possible row was narrowly averted by the timely appearance of Denis Cathcart.   


"Hullo, ladies," he smiled winningly. "I trust you're all enjoying the evening?" His words were greeted with dazzling smiles and batted eyelashes from the other girls. He toyed with the red carnation pinned rakishly to his white dress robes as he returned a grin.  


Metis merely said politely, "Yes, quite. And you?"  


"Smashing." He laid a hand on her arm. "But see here, I was wondering if I might borrow you for a moment."  


Metis' gaze flicked to where Tom stood speaking quietly to several other boys. "I'm not sure-"  


"Nonsense," Denis said quickly, tightening his grip on her arm and pulling her away from her friends.  


"So," he said when they were out of earshot, "Tom tells me he's told you all about our little club. And what do you think?"  


"I think Tom can do whatever he desires. I'd do anything for him, Denis." She held his gaze evenly.  


"Would you?" He seemed pleased with her answer. "Would you indeed?" He smiled his Cheshire cat smile at her again and leaned in closer. "Absolutely anything?" He reached out and curled a loose lock of her hair around his fingers. "Well, that is interesting."  


"Look," Metis said, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but it has to stop. I don't want any attention from you, or help, or advice. Do you understand me? So stop singling me out like this or I will tell Tom."  


"What the hell is all this about?" Tom appeared at Denis' elbow, as if summoned by Metis' distress.  


For his part, Denis seemed thoroughly unruffled. "I was just making sure Metis understood what we were about and all that. That's important, isn't it? If she's to join us?"  


"You seem awfully concerned with her, Denis," Tom said dangerously.  


"Nonsense," the older boy laughed. "In fact," he caught Metis by the arm. "Why don't you come dance with me, Metis? I'm sure Tom won't mind. Will you, Tom?"  


"You're playing a very dangerous game," Tom said softly. "Don't think I don't know what this is about. You think she's my weakness." Tom grabbed hold of Metis' other arm, gripping so tightly that she blinked tears from her eyes. "You're wrong. She's my strength. You won't get what you're looking for this way."  


"Really? And just what is that?"  


"You think you can take my place, but you have no idea who you're dealing with. If you want to lead that band of fickle children, you're welcome to them. Because that's not where the power is. It's never been about that." He narrowed his eyes. "I know you're only doing this to get under my skin. It won't work." Tom took a step forward, invading Denis' space. "If I had any doubts about Metis' loyalty to me I'd simply kill you both and save myself the trouble. This isn't a game you want to be playing." And then, bizarrely, Tom began to laugh, turning his eyes on her. "Our ancestors are laughing at us, Metis. It is fitting irony, I think, that I should love you so."   


She stared at him. He continued, "I know who and what we are. I think you do, too -- at least, you're beginning to. Although perhaps not the significance of it." He turned abruptly from her and said, "Go. Dance with him if it's so bloody important." He held Denis' gaze for a fraction of a second too long.  


"But, Tom" she began to protest.  


"Do it," he said, still watching Denis. "Don't make me angry, my friend. You will regret it."  


***  


It was nearly midnight, and Albus still hadn't spoken to June. Just what was he doing, stalling like this? Stealing himself, he scanned the crowd for her again. She was across the room from him now, sipping champagne and nodding absently at something a fellow Ministry employee was saying. Gaea was still dancing with Hayden, for all intents and purposes enjoying herself immensely. For his part, Albus half-listened as an old school chum recounted an amusing anecdote to a group of their mutual friends.  


The chandeliers dimmed at ten minutes to, and Albus detached himself from the group, making his apologies. He'd had two fingerbowls of champagne, just enough to give the scene a golden hue, to make the little dramas seem epic and wrap him up in the music. Somehow his progress across the room seemed to alternately slow and speed up time. At eight minutes to he was waylaid by another group of old friends. June stood by herself now, watching the face of the magical clock. At two minutes till, he nearly stumbled over Orva Dashwood and Ruth Middleton, who breathlessly demanded to know whether Gaea Lee was really as amazing as everyone said.   


_10 9_ The countdown started and he was still no closer to his destination. _7 _Denis Cathcart, a sandy-haired, good-looking Slytherin, broke off dancing with Metis McGonagall at the fifth stroke, and bent in close to her face. _3 _She said something Albus couldn't hear and tried to pull away, but the boy grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and kissed her hard as the room exploded into cheers.

Albus waded between kissing couples and revelers flourishing their glittering wands like sparklers. His teacher's instinct caused him to wonder briefly whether he should intervene on Metis' behalf. But before he could decide, someone knocked into him sending him stumbling against a pair of drunken wizards singing Auld Lang Syne off-key and at the top of their lungs. He looked up to see Tom Riddle, long strides carrying him through the crowd, heading toward the corner where Metis stood arguing with Denis. Her pretty face was flushed and her eyes glassy, filled with tears of anger or maybe fear. Her head jerked up as Tom reached them, and she closed her eyes, resolved it seemed to whatever consequences awaited them. Tom leaned in, said something to Denis that made the other boy laugh sharply, and then, dragging Metis behind him, headed out the French doors at the end of the ballroom.  


Denis watched them go with an unreadable expression on his face, then turned and stalked off in the opposite direction.  


June stood in a corner, a half-filled coupe listing to one side in her grasp, the champagne just barely licking the lip of the glass and threatening to spill over the side. She leaned against the wall, watching the celebration distractedly, red and gold sparks falling across her hair and shoulders. A breathless Hayden appeared from the shadows and whispered something that made her laugh, before kissing her chastely on the lips and dashing back out into the fray. Once there, he scooped Gaea into a flamboyant dip and kissed her elaborately on the mouth to the applause of many spectators. And then, somehow, slipping through that mass of jubilant bodies, Albus found himself standing before June. She looked up, surprise on her face.  


"Albus. I didn't expect" she began.  


"See here, I think we need to talk," he said at the same moment. "Please." He extended a hand to her.  


"All right," she replied and slipped her hand into his.  


***  


The French doors opened onto a wide veranda overlooking the Middletons' walled garden. June tried not to take this as an omen, another garden scene was the very last thing she needed. She'd been dreading this confrontation since September, since that evening in the prefects' garden. She'd played this moment over a hundred times in her head, looking for just the right thing to say. But now that she was here, looking into Albus' uncertain blue eyes, she found that everything she'd planned sounded hollow and insincere.  


"Albus, I'm sorry," June found herself saying, moved by some strange emotion she didn't quite understand. She shivered almost uncontrollably in the frigid night air, the thin material of her dress robes doing little to keep out the cold.   


"What are you sorry for?" he asked, the latticed French doors casting shadows across his chest and shoulders. "You haven't done anything wrong."  


"Haven't I? I hurt you, I know that."  


"Yes, well. I hurt you as well. So I should be apologizing."  


"Well, I wasn't about to take full responsibility," she replied with the first hints of a smile.  


"Weren't you?" He smiled, then sobered abruptly. "Well, we're speaking again. That's a start. But the question still remains"  


"What to do now?" June sighed. "I don't know what to tell you."  


"You never answered my question. That would be a good place to start. Do you think we could ever? Do you think you could ever feel"  


"I do love you, Albus. I" She put a hand on his arm. "I do."  


"I never doubted that." He smiled ruefully. "But I want more than your simple affection. It's taken me a long time to admit that truth to myself." He looked at her evenly. "I'm not sure I can be your friend anymore. Not just your friend. The way I feel, it's just too much for that."  


He was voicing her worst fear, what she'd suspected for months now. "Albus, no. I can't" She stopped, turning away from him, feeling ridiculously melodramatic as she did so.   


"You can't what, June?"  


She shook her head.  


"You can't return my feelings? Can't see me anymore? Say it already, damn it."  


"I can't lose you," she said flatly. "Do you have any idea what you're threatening me with? 'Love me or else.' How can that be fair?" She rounded on him. "Do you want the truth? The truth is that I don't know how I feel, or what I want. I just don't. And it would be so easy just to give in to you, to give you what you're asking for, so easy. But it wouldn't be fair, to you or to me."  


The idea of losing him terrified her, and that's what this came down to. One way or another after tonight she would lose Albus, her friend, forever. She felt her last shreds of control slipping, knew she was on the verge of saying things to him that she'd never imagined putting into words. She closed her eyes, struggling to keep her emotions in check.  


"June, look at me." His voice was soft, too soft. It made her feel weak, as though she was a child who needed speaking to gently. "Look at me," he repeated. "I'm not trying to hurt you, to threaten you. I just can't live like this anymore."  


"Then this is my only choice, isn't it? If it comes down to an all or nothing decision" She gazed up at him, feeling beaten. "There's only one thing I can do, isn't there?"  


He watched her curiously, uncertainty and hope in his expression, as she moved closer to him. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you? You know that I couldn't stand here and let you walk away." She moved still closer, laying her hands softly on his arms. "If this is how it has to be, you win." His arms went around her and he bent his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "I've loved you since we were children, Albus," June continued. "It's not exactly what you want, but it's all I have to offer"  


She shuddered to a halt, the words failing her. Albus' mouth was inches from hers and he said, "Don't say anything you'll regret, June."  


"Albus," she whispered, closing her eyes and clutching at his arms. She could feel his breath on her face, and tilted her head back to allow him to kiss her, but he pulled away, taking a step back from her.   


"All I wanted was to know if there was a chance, a chance that you could feel something for me," he said, shaking his head. "Now I see that there is." He put a hand to her face. "I would never force you into anything. You do believe that, don't you?"  


A bitter laugh forced itself from her throat. "Oh, Albus. You have no idea. Never force me? Everything about you forces me. Your every conviction, your certainty, your honor, your everything -- it forces me. Forces me to love you, and to be terrified of you and to never be sure of you." He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a hand. "I love you, but I don't know if I can be in love with you. Not the way you want. Is that enough for you?"  


He paused, looking as though a million different things were on his tongue, but he didn't dare say any of them. Finally, instead, he said softly, "Will you think me a weak man if I say it is?"  


June reached for him again, taking his hand in hers. "Just give me some time. Let me be with you without expectations, without this distance between us. You say you can't be my friend, but I'm asking you to try. I can't let you go, but I'm not sure of anything more." She looked up at him, fear and confusion and affection tangled together in her gut. For a moment she was afraid he wouldn't answer at all. He simply looked down at her with those unknowable blue eyes.   


"Just like you, there's only one answer I can give. And you already know what it is, don't you?" His expression softened. "I can't walk away from you either." He stepped close to her again, wrapping his arms around her. She could smell his expensive pipe tobacco and the scent of old books and indigo ink that had been a part of him since she could remember. He tilted her face up toward him with a steady hand and placed a soft kiss on her cheek, just brushing the corner of her mouth with his lips. June closed her eyes, fighting the conflicting urges to flee from him and to kiss him back.  


In the uncomfortably silent moment that followed, a sudden, piercing scream split the air, and they jumped apart guiltily.  


"What was that?" June asked.  


"I'm not sure," Albus replied, looking out over the veranda. "It sounded like it came from the garden, though." He glanced back at her. "Stay here. I'm going to go and see." The scream repeated, and Albus ran toward the sound, leaving June standing dumbfounded for a moment before she chased after him.  


***  


From the garden, Tom could just make out the gaily-dressed figures in the ballroom. Tchaikovsky's Waltz String Serenade floated on the night air, punctuated by tinkling female laughter and the clink of glasses meeting. Tom found himself much more at ease standing outside looking in on the scene than he'd been in the midst of it. This would have been his life if not for his father, this glitter, this ease, this world of cultured voices and polite corruption. It should have made him angry. It did, deep down, but it was an alien kind of anger. He couldn't touch it. It lived in him, but was so far removed somehow. Like internal combustion for his soul, it burned deep within, fueling everything he did, but never touching him.  
He remembered a time when he was young -- before an escape from the prison of his Muggle life had been shown to him -- the burning inside him had needed an outlet. He'd nicked matches from the local shops, his preternatural stealth always ensuring he wouldn't be caught, and had lit them one after another. He let them burn to his fingers before dropping them to floor, hoping perversely that one would catch someday. The flickering flames hypnotized him, focused him, and he felt the burning anger flare and gutter and extinguish with the tiny fire, being drawn slowly out of him one match at a time. It kept him sane at a time when squalor and terror and pain lived in every shadow, at the very edges of his small life.  


He'd escaped, and there was no need for fire anymore. His internal furnace burned low now, sustaining him, but never out of control. He had other outlets now.  


Beside him, Metis watched his expression carefully, her blue eyes wide with what could only be fear. He stopped, dropping her hand and turning her toward him. "What is it?"  


"I'm sorry," she began. "I know you must be angry with me."  


"And why should I be angry?" Tom asked, a tiny part of him gratified to see her shift uncomfortably under his gaze. He stepped closer, invading her space, trapping her with his body, his presence. "Well? Tell me, lover. Did you enjoy his kiss? Is that why I should be angry? Would you rather I sent you back to him?"  


"Tom, no. I didn't mean-"  


"Well, then. I've no reason to be angry, do I?" He reached up to touch her hair. It was pinned up in thick, ebony coils; he hated it that way. Something in him wanted to tug out all those lithe silver pins and tangle himself in her. He wanted her hair wild and tousled, the way it looked when she was in his bed.  


He pulled at one long loop of metal, feeling her hair slide like wet silk between his long fingers. Metis reached up and caught his hand. "Don't."   


"Don't? Why? Will I ruin you?" He placed a kiss against her neck, smiling into the curve of her jaw. "I think it might be a little late for that."  


"Tom" She trailed off as his mouth covered hers.  


He kissed her softly, but insistently, as if to reassure himself that she belonged to him, and only him. He could taste champagne on her mouth, feel her pulse pounding in time with his. She shifted uncomfortably against him, away from him, breaking his kiss and turning her head.  


"We should go back. People will be wondering where we are." She began to move in the direction of the house, but he stopped her with one strong hand.  


"Let them wonder." He breathed, pulling her back against him. "Do you really care what those people think of us, Metis? They're so small, their world is so small."  


"But"  


"Stop," he said, pushing her against the back of a stone bench. "I want you here with me. Now. That's all that should matter to either of us."  


"Oh, Tom. You're too sometimes I fear that you'll swallow me up. I don't even know myself when I'm with you." She trembled beneath his touch, and he caught her mouth with his again.  


He maneuvered them around to the front of the low bench. It was carved of some heavy stone, pale as the surface of the moon. Tom pushed Metis onto the seat, bracing his hands on either side of her. She lay beneath him, passive now, lust and fear in her dark eyes, her breasts rising and falling rapidly against his slender chest. He could feel her every movement through the crisp, pressed fabric of his clothing. He bent and kissed her, nothing hasty or hurried about it this time. He opened his eyes and watched her as they kissed, her black hair spilled on the stone beneath her, the tiny blue veins crisscrossing her eyelids, the way her dark lashes brushed against her skin. It wasn't enough. Never enough. He needed her warmth, her breath and the pulse, pulse, pulse of her blood beneath her skin. So close but separate. He needed her from within to give him heat, to give him life. He would gladly devour her if he thought it would make them one, if he thought her warmth would heat the icy places he could never touch inside himself. He broke off the kiss, fumbling almost desperately with the barriers of clothing between them.  


"Tom, wait." Metis raised her head from its stone pillow, as if waking from a deep dream. "Wait." She sat up, spilling him off her. "Not here. Anyone could just walk by."  


Uncharacteristically, he gave in. He could have forced the issue. Indeed, he'd done so before, when need and anguish had overpowered him. But this time he felt strangely drained: too tired to fight her, however pleasant the result. They walked back through the moonlit garden paths, aware suddenly that they were very alone. Even the other young lovers had abandoned the garden in favor of the house. The cool, clear night took on an oppressive hush, of held breath, of turning tides, of waiting for something. Something just beyond the flagged stones and trellised climbing roses shut, sleeping and silent in the grey winter.   


"Tom," Metis began, looking up at him, dark hair framing her too-pale face, her eyes fearful again. "I don't think we should"  


She was cut off by a heavily accented voice from the dark just beyond them. "You cannot be allowed," it said, cold conviction and commitment beneath every syllable. Before they had time to react, a flash of silver arced through the air. Metis cried out, stumbling and falling heavily against Tom, as a man detached himself from the shadows of the garden.  


He pointed evenly at Tom. "You cannot be allowed," he repeated, gesturing with his right hand. Silver flashed again in the moonlight and Tom realized that the man was holding a knife -- a silver knife, shaped like a crescent moon, and covered with blood. Tom caught his breath, realization dawning, and looked down at Metis. She clutched at his arm with her free hand. Her other hand held her side, blood black as tar in the dark seeping through her fingers. She looked into his eyes, and for a moment time stopped, leaving both of them rooted to the spot. Then the man lunged forward again.  


The knife caught Metis a second time. She gasped, stumbling backward, her body still blocking Tom's. He reacted this time, shoving her behind him, and reaching for his wand. "Don't touch her again."  


"She is not important, boy," the man said evenly, looking at Tom, through him, in a way that made his blood turn to ice. "You are the one who must be stopped. If the girl must die to destroy you, so be it."  


"I could kill you before you took another step," Tom replied coldly. This insolent man who would take that which was Tom's own, as though it meant nothing, would die. Had to die. No one who defied him would live. He was Slytherin's heir, he was the future of magic, and any who thought differently were chaff that begged to be burned to make the field bear fruit. Tom smiled slowly at this thought. How poetic, almost like scripture. _My scripture. My words as holy law. _  


"Defy this," he said aloud and cast a shaft of green energy at the other man who, very suddenly, was no longer there.  


"You're arrogant, boy," the heavy slurring voice hissed up against his ear. "You may be powerful, terrible, someday but you're not there yet." 

Before Tom could even take a breath, the man slashed the vicious, curved blade across Tom's ribs, moving with quick artful strokes. Opening his veins, parting his skin so quickly and surely there was no pain, no time to cry out. The blade burned like ice where it touched, bleeding him of magic, of power, as it spilled blood from his wounds. Slashing there, hot blood sticking the rough cloth of his shirt to his curved bones. And there, across the line of his cheekbone. And again there, cold fingers down his back, caressing his spine from tip to base like terrible lover's fingers. The man was a shadow, a phantom whisper of movement before he struck, the wicked whistling of sharp, slick metal through the air Tom's only warning. Metis lay huddled at his feet, a tangle of white limbs and black hair in the moonlight. She didn't move, didn't respond, even when he called her name. And then, just as he'd resolved to give in to the swirl of black and green at the edges of his vision, salvation.  


The man cursed and jerked away, something causing him to drop his knife. Tom was aware of a figure at the edges of the path, burning with a crimson aura and shouting words in a language so old even Tom hadn't conquered them yet. Tom thudded to his knees, the hard, cold stones pricking and punishing his the flats of his hands. He stared at them distractedly, aware of the purple blood blossoming beneath the crisscrossed skin, and the fire-ice of his wounds. The side of his face burned and he brushed a hand over his cheek.  


"Tom?" a familiar voice was saying. A hand lighted softly on his shoulder. "Can you understand me, Tom?"  


Running footsteps, then. And another shadow-figure entering the clearing.  


"Albus! Oh, my god."  


"June, help me. He's hurt."  


Dumbledore, then. Dumbledore and his leggy Ministry blonde. Of course. Just the sorts to come running to the rescue. Tom laughed irrationally, the sound bubbling up from his stomach and dribbling past his lips. A pair of soft hands replaced Dumbledore's on Tom's shoulders. The scent of vanilla and anise filled his senses, and he felt long, manicured fingers steadying his neck.  


"Tom? Are you all right? Please answer." A pause. "Albus, what the hell happened out here?"  


"I don't know." Dumbledore's voice sounded uncharacteristically strained, as he bent over the shadow-man's fallen form a few feet away. "I-" He faltered, then scrambled to his feet, rushing toward the shadow of a large rosebush. "June, go get help now."   


"What? Albus, what is it?" She broke off, then gasped softly, and tried to pull Tom in the other direction. Then he saw what June and Dumbledore did: Metis, half-hidden by the treacherous shadows, lying in a slick pool, like black glass, like crude oil. Blood, the same color as her hair in the half-light, thick on the flagged stones and clinging to her pale, blue-tinged skin.  


Tom flung June's hands off his back and lunged toward Metis, sending June sprawling hard on the garden path.   


"Tom, don't." Dumbledore put out a restraining arm. Tom stumbled into it, slipping and falling to the ground next to Metis. As he looked into her pale face, the world tilted on its side. He put a frigid, shaking hand to his temple, feeling the blackness threatening the edges of his vision again, and decided not to fight it.  


***  


"Go, June. Now." Albus said, looking from Tom to June, sitting white-faced on the cold ground. "Just go and get someone. I'll do what I can for them."  


Shakily she nodded, and set off running down the path, her wine red dress robes uncomfortably like the color of blood. Albus tore his gaze from her retreating form and forced himself to look at the scene around him. Tom clutched at Metis, ignoring his own wounds, blood flowing through his fingers as he tried uselessly to push life back into her.  


"Don't do this," the boy was whispering incoherently. "You know better than this. This is not how it happens. We both know that, damn it."  


Albus tried to pull Tom gently away. "Come on," he said softly, hoping he could get through. "You're not helping her like this. Come on"  


But Tom refused to give way. He cradled her in his arms, both of them blood-soaked, Metis' face very white against Tom's dark robes. Her eyes were closed and her lips bloodless. Albus feared very much that she was already beyond hope. Tom began to shake, trembling so violently that he seemed likely to be seized by a fit.  


"Tom, let me help her," Albus said more forcefully. He yanked the boy away, harder than he'd intended, leaving Tom in a limp, shuddering tangle of limbs on the walk. Albus leaned close to Metis, trying to do what he could to slow the bleeding, knowing full well that his amateurish efforts could be for nothing.  


"Kopil."  


Albus' head jerked up at the sound. In the shadows, Tom and Metis' attacker regained consciousness and was staring at Albus with poisonous hatred.  


"Ju kopil." The man spat the curse again, attempting to lever himself up on one arm, only to discover he was bound tightly.  


Albus looked back down at Metis. She was still breathing, barely, the shallow movements of her chest making his own ache as he watched. The bleeding had slowed to nearly nothing, whether from his spells or the fact that she had nothing left to bleed he wasn't sure. Either way, there was nothing more he could do. He stood, crossing over to Tom, rolling him over onto his back, taking his pulse, trying to keep him still. The boy was clearly in shock, his pulse thready, his breathing erratic, but his wounds were minor in comparison.  


"You," the man hissed from his shadow. "You interfered. Have you any idea what you've done?" He reached out and gripped Albus' arm hard, searching for something in his gaze. "Perhaps you do. Or you're about to." A strangely calm expression passed over the man's face. "Be it on your head then," he said, with a sense of finality. With some difficulty, he placed his other hand over his chest, mumbling an alien incantation. His grip on Albus' wrist shuddered, convulsed and went slack. He was dead.  


Albus jerked away, the man's hand falling to the ground as he did. He sat down hard on the path, looking from Metis' crumpled form to the uneven rise and fall of Tom's chest to the too-still shadow of the dead man, and wondered what to do now.  


"Albus!" a faint voice carried down through the darkened garden paths to him. June came running followed by a stream of people from the house. "Albus." 

He stood as she skidded to a halt beside him, grabbing hold of him to steady herself, her face pale and drawn. "They're coming. Help is coming." Indeed, on the heels of their panicked hosts came a squad of mediwizards and MLE officers. "They Apparated right over." She looked down at Metis. "Oh, I hope we aren't too late."  


"Not yet," he said softly, "though I can't imagine what they can do for her."  


"Oh, damn," he heard one of the officers say. "We've got three down. I thought you said there were only two?"  


Albus turned to them wearily. "The boy's all right, just in shock. And the man who did this He's dead. Killed himself with a curse, I don't know what it was."  


June turned to him in shock, tightening her grip on his arm, but didn't ask any further questions.   


"Come on, Albus, June," Brantley Middleton said, white-faced. "Let's get out of the way so these gentlemen can do their jobs. Slowly Albus nodded and let June lead him back through the garden and up to the house, now ablaze with lights from every window. He looked down at their hands, fingers entwined as they walked, then up to her face, white and worried in the light from the open French doors.  


An overwhelming urge to say everything he hadn't been able to earlier that evening swept over him. "June, I-"  


"June! Darling!" Hayden pushed his way through the knot of people on the terrace, running nimbly down the steps toward them. "Good lord, June. They're saying people are dead Bloody hell." He grabbed her by the shoulders, looking down into her face. "Are you quite all right?"  


"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just fine" June allowed Hayden to pull her away and draw her aside from the crowd.  


Left alone, Albus spotted Gaea's pale, concerned face among the spectators. She moved to his side and put a hand on his arm. "Albus? Are you all right?"  


"I'm fine. I just can't understand" He shook his head, trying to clear it.  


"Come on." She tugged at his arm. "Come inside. You need a drink."  


Numbed, he looked around for June, but she'd disappeared with Hayden. Gaea pushed him gently but firmly in the direction of the house. "Come on, Albus. Please. You've done everything you could. Let me take care of you. All right?"  


As they crossed the threshold, he noticed the blood on his hands. Was it Tom's? Metis'? Or a thousand others'? What a strange thought to have. But something in the way that man looked at him Albus shook his head again. No. He couldn't afford those thoughts. The ravings of a madman, of a murderer. Gaea still had hold of him, guiding him into the quiet of the Middleton's library. He sat heavily in an overstuffed leather chair by the fire, holding his bloodied hands away from him.  


"Here." Gaea wiped them clean with a swish of her wand. She waved it over his robes as well; wiping away blood soaking his chest and sleeves that he hadn't even noticed was there. "They're going to want to talk to you, Albus. They're already talking to Miss Lisbon. But I thought you should have a moment first." She knelt beside the chair, pressing a glass of warm brandy into his hands. "Albus? Are you all right? This isn't like you. I know it must have been terrible but"  


He turned to look at her. "I know. It's just something about this It feels wrong. Do you know what I mean, Gaea? It feels like I've done something irreparable, and I don't know whether I acted for good or ill."  


Gaea looked up at him, still on her knees by the fire, shock coloring her expression. "Albus, they said you saved that boy's life. I can't believe"  


He took her hand in his, and stared into the flickering orange flames behind the scorched grate of the ancient fireplace.  


"I understand," she said, at last. "That man, the one who You're wondering whether he had to die. Oh, Albus." She flung her arms around his waist. "Don't do this to yourself. There isn't anyone as good, as fair as you are. I'm sure you did everything you could."  


He stroked a hand over her hair, unable to shake the feeling that he'd been wrong. That he'd set something in motion tonight and was powerless to stop it, to stay its course. He wasn't sure how long they sat that way in front of the fire, before a knock came at the door.  


"Albus Oh, I'm sorry." June stood in the doorway, framed by bright yellow light from the hallway, contrasting sharply with the honey-gold reflection of the fire. Gaea released him and stood up, Albus got to his feet himself.  


They- The MLE, they want to speak with you now." She smiled at him a bit shakily. "Are you all right?"  


"Yes, June. I'm fine. I'll be fine." We'll all be fine, he thought, but without much conviction.  


***  



	7. The Pains of Sleep

DREAMWALK BLUE - CHAPTER SIX ****

Please read before skipping to the fun stuff. ^_^

Regarding recent events: I have a whole slew of personal opinions – on plagiarism, the importance of clear terms of service, due process, the necessity for mutual respect in building a community and a dozen other things. If you're interested in my stance on the matter, [email me][1], then make up your own mind. The whole situation has degenerated into the kind of vindictiveness and nasty name-calling that gives internet communities a bad name – I am highly disappointed by this, and expected more professional behavior. And I also expected the kind of respect for users/authors implicit in a community of adults and young adults. For the time being I plan on continuing to post _Dreamwalk Blue_ to Fanfiction.net, for a variety of reasons, but two main ones: a. I hate making decisions based solely on emotion. I would be unhappy with myself if I took that step out of anger. b. The more important reason is because, after giving it a lot of thought, I don't feel that pulling my fics off FFN would be fair to the people who have taken the time to read and offer me such wonderful feedback. Some of you are on one side of this issue, some on the other. I won't make any decision until after DB is completed (only a couple more chapters now ^_^) – whether I post the rest of the _Dreamwalk_ story arc ([the planned prequel and sequels][2]) to FFN remains to be seen. That being said, I encourage everyone to join [Yahoo!Groups][3], check out [Sugar Quill][4], check out the [new HP fanfiction archive][5] being built (more info on that coming soon, I'm told). This is a wonderful fan community that really should be owning and running itself, not dependent on FFN. It's because of our dependence on this site that this situation has been so emotion-driven and nasty. I'm not saying leave FFN, or stop posting and reading here. But I do hope we can expand and create an experience where new authors are born, unsung authors discovered and veteran authors allowed to grow.

DREAMWALK BLUE - CHAPTER SIX

A/N: Another chapter, another cameo. Not the vintage kind, Heidi (though I'm desperately jealous over that. ^_^) – hope you enjoy it. And there are spoilers for the opera _La Traviata_, of all things, so if anyone out there has a burning desire not to know how that ends, I'd suggest skipping the opera scene. Thanks to Karina for the emergency beta-read – soon you'll know all my secret plot twists.

Kudos to Joanna and Nora over on the [HP_Paradise][3] list, who were the ones to correctly guess that Gaea (Earthwalk!) in Chapter 5 was patterned after Jordan Baker from _The Great Gatsby_. 

Chapter Six: Some rather long Author's Notes, Tom's quest to conquer death begins, Albus gets some culture, and a trip to the basement to meet the MoM's Most Unwanted.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction – I have no moral, legal or ethical claim on any of what is found herein. The main source material is the trademarked/copyrighted property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling, Bloomsbury/Scholastic, Warner Bros., et al. This is a fan work, not for profit and/or revenue. No one else is intended to profit monetarily and/or generate revenue from it either. Other sources are cited in the notes at the end of each chapter. If this is deemed unsatisfactory, a footnoted version is available on [request][1] and historical references are cited on my [website][6]. 

In this chapter, there is a scene directly inspired by Dorothy L. Sayers' 1936 novel _Gaudy Night_ – it is not the same scene, nor are any of the same characters, exact locations or prose used. My only inspiration is drawn from the situation and mood of the characters. Connie Willis, a professional, published-for-profit author, also paid homage to this same Sayers' scene in Willis' 1998 novel _To Say Nothing of the Dog _– a novel in which Willis quotes, paraphrases and takes inspiration from everyone from Agatha Christie to Jerome K. Jerome, Alfred, Lord Tennyson to Oscar Wilde. 

The only section that appears word for word in my scene as it does in Sayers' is a quotation of poetry, which was not written by Sayers, but is from [_Queen Mab. A Philosophical Poem_][7]by Percy Bysse Shelley: _How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep…_ It is used in my scene in a completely different context than in _Gaudy Night_. For the record, Sayers doesn't credit Shelley; I had to look up who wrote the poem in question for myself. To view the original scene as written by Sayers, click [here][8]. To view the homage by Willis, click [here][9]. **Interesting to note** – through the course of _Gaudy Night,_ Sayers uses the words of several dozen poets, authors and philosophers (usually as dialogue) and does not disclaim/cite/give credit to any of them. Just food for thought. ^_^

CHAPTER SIX – THE PAINS OF SLEEP 

There may be trouble ahead 

But while there's music and moonlight 

And love and romance 

Let's face the music and dance 

Soon, we'll be without the moon 

Humming a different tune - and then... 

There may be teardrops to shed 

So while there's music and moonlight 

And love and romance 

Let's face the music and dance 

(_let's face the music_ _and dance_ irving berlin, 1936)

__

Death was in the room when Tom awoke.

He could smell it in the metallic tang of blood that stained his clothing, could feel its cold caress in the gashes on his arms and back. It crouched in every shadow and sat invisibly on Tom's chest like an icy, leaden weight.

Tom burned and froze with poisonous fever in turns, unable to control the shuddering in his limbs until someone forced him to drink something thick and equally hot and cold. Then the tremors stopped and he fell into unconsciousness again.

But when he woke again – maybe minutes, maybe hours later, Death was still waiting.

It smiled at Tom from the shadows, causing a shiver to pass through everyone in the room. A kind-faced, young woman leaned over Tom then and asked if he was feeling better.

"Where is she?" he croaked in a voice that sounded wholly unfamiliar. The woman exchanged an unreadable glance with a quiet, competent-looking man in the corner.

"Who, Tom?" she said, instead.

"Don't be feeble!" he snapped, suddenly angry. "You know perfectly well who I mean!"

"Now, don't upset yourself," said the man with a hint of warning in his voice. "You wait here quietly and we'll see what we can do."

Tom submitted immediately, sitting, cooperating, fearful lest they give him another sleeping draught. The man and woman left, speaking quietly to one another, fastening the door as they went. Tom lay back, knowing the meaning of their careful omissions, but not ready to accept the truth of it.

After an indeterminate amount of time, they came back to admit to him that she was dead, their voices hushed and placating.

"We're terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Tom. But it's better you know now…"

"She held on longer than any of us had any right to expect…"

"Do you want to see her, Tom? You don't have to, of course, but if you want…"

He'd jumped out of his bed at these words. Yes, he'd see her. Of course he would. Had they thought he'd say no?

The woman, likely a nurse of some sort, led him from the room, Tom padding softly behind her down the corridor, the torches guttering and shying in heavy bronze sconces on the walls, freezing stones beneath his bare feet.

Tom looked around him curiously. Was this St. Mungo's? It had to be. The stone was ancient. They passed rooms filled with books and equipment dating back to ancient times. And beneath the veneer of these civilized rooms, were the hints and echoes of a time when this place had been used to hurt as well as heal.

After an aching eternity of walking, they stopped outside an ominously closed door. The nurse turned to Tom.

"Would you like me to come in with you?"

"No," he replied firmly. "I want to be alone with her."

He pushed the door open, closing it decidedly behind him as he slipped through. In the eerie half-light Tom could make out a long, flat stone table surrounded by abandoned medical and magical devices.

Metis lay on the smooth, silver stone, her eyes closed, her lips blue in the dim. Her hair spilled over the sides on the table, and Tom was put in mind of a childhood fairy tale about a sleeping princess in a glass coffin. In that story, all the princess had needed was a kiss from her prince.

In real life, however, Death demanded a slightly dearer ransom.

Tom fumbled beneath his robes, hoping the mediwizards hadn't taken everything from him when they changed his clothes. His fingers closed around a smooth, metal token on a chain around his neck. It was still there. It had been his grandfather's, and one of the few things his mother had left him. It wasn't until he reached Hogwarts that he'd realized what a powerful magical item it was.

Tom hadn't used it often; the price for the power it summoned was too high. But this, now… He didn't feel he had any choice. He moved closer to the stone table, leaning over Metis' body. He stroked a hand over her still, pale face, and took a deep, steadying breath.

They'd left her for dead, but she was still there. Tom could feel her when he placed his hands against her body. She was still warm, just barely; her pulse stilled, but it wasn't too late. Those fools hadn't even tried to save her.

He would have to be careful. He'd heard of other attempts gone badly wrong. If Metis had been there even a moment too long, bringing her back, ripping her from that sleep could fracture her fragile mind. But he had to try. He had no other choice.

She was still in there, just below the surface. He could feel her, almost hear her if he strained. She wasn't ready yet. All he had to do was reach out his hand and pull her back.

He unclasped the chain from around his neck, winding it around one palm. With the other hand he groped around the table for something sharp. He found a long, thin blade, its silver polish stained dark with Metis' blood. Tom dropped to his knees in front of the table, using part of his concentration to hold the door shut, lest the nurse come looking for him. His eyes fixed on Metis' face, Tom hefted the knife, took a breath, and brought it down across the palm that held the chain. Stifling a gasp of pain, Tom gingerly took the blade in his now-bleeding hand and cut across the other palm. He grasped the talisman more tightly between his slashed palms, feeling the heavy chain bite into bloodied flesh, kneeling on the cold stones beside her bed like a penitent.

Once he did this, it was irreversible – the blood pact bound them together with Death's power for all eternity, but Tom didn't care. He wondered idly in the back of his mind if Metis would.

She would not, he decided, if the alternative meant being separated forever. His mind was made up, then. He steeled his resolve and squeezed his palms together, trailing his own blood on the floor.

He reached up with one finger and smeared some of the congealed blood from the wound in Metis' arm, mixing it as best he could with his own on the stone floor, and began to draw. In the middle of a crimson circle, Tom mumbled under his breath. He could feel Death in this room now, in one of its many guises. Tom didn't care about any of that, he just wanted to make it let go of Metis.

He struggled, like a mental tug of war, sweat sprouting on his brow, his bloodied fingers trembling, the talisman swaying back and forth with the effort. The visions behind his eyes grew green and distorted. He could taste blood in his mouth and imagined he could feel it mingling with the sweat on his face and neck. Tom felt as though he heard Metis' voice, could smell the scent of her hair free from the stench of blood, could feel her heartbeat. He focused on that…beat, beat, beat… until he could feel the steady rhythm in time with his own pumping heart. Tom imagined pushing his breath into Metis' body, he pushed and pushed in his mind until he could see her chest rising and falling in time with his own. The moment struggled and faltered like a fish on a line, teetering dangerously, and then something tore free. With a wrenching pop, Tom was flung backward from his knees. He looked up at the body on the bed in half-fearful anticipation.

Metis' eyes flew open, and she took a gasping breath, as though he'd pulled her from icy water.

Death laughed in its shadowed corner, with a promise that it would be seeing them both again, and slipped through a crack underneath the door.

Tom stumbled to his feet and toward Metis. She sat upright on the table, sending gleaming metal equipment clattering to the floor and looking around wildly. Tears tumbled down her cheeks and she choked on them as she tried to breathe. Tom caught her around the waist and held her to him.

He called for the nurse waiting just beyond the door, at the same moment tipping a nearby basin of water over his hands and the blood on the floor, eliminating any clue of the magic he'd done. He slipped the talisman back into his robes, and began to rub Metis' hands, trying to bring warmth back into her cold fingers. She struggled against him, trying to push him away.

"No, Tom," she sobbed. "Why?" She choked and shuddered again. "Why?"

The nurse flew into the room, skidding to halt at the sight of them, raw disbelief on her face. She turned and fled into the hall, calling wildly for one of the doctors.

The room filled with light and people then, all gasping and murmuring about miracles, but Tom ignored them. He held tightly to Metis' hand even after they began to examine her.

The color was returning to Metis' cheeks and lips, and her breathing steadied. The disorientation cleared from her eyes and she watched Tom intently from where she lay.

He leaned down and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead. She grabbed hold of his neck, reaching up weakly to whisper, "How many more times do you intend to save me, Tom?"

Tom didn't answer. Even Death, it seemed, had its price. But Tom had no intention of ever paying the debt.

***

June, 1944

Summer had rapidly become Tom's favorite season. The school belonged to him alone, its halls quiet and cool, spending lazy afternoons by the lake. This was the second year in a row he'd been allowed to stay here and it was more than he could have hoped.

Today, Tom lay hidden among the rushes at the lake's edge, a book open face-down on his chest, one hand trailing in the water, the other tangled in Metis' cool hair.

"I'm glad you're here," he said softly. Metis sighed in agreement and moved closer to him on the soft, blue blanket.

"I like this," she murmured. "It's as though the whole castle belongs only to us."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" He smiled down at her. "Perhaps someday."

He levered himself up on one elbow and bent in to kiss her. He caught her lower lip between his sharp, even teeth, one hand stroking the side of her face, the other fiddling idly with the buttons of her blouse.

"You won't leave me, will you?" he murmured as the last button came free.

"No. Never. You wouldn't let me, would you?" She arched up into the touch of his hand on her bare stomach. Tom kissed her again, then pulled back looking down at her.

In the one place her skin hadn't been repaired, a thin scar remained where the knife had glanced off her ribs. The scar was very small, the lone reminder of her brush with death, the one imperfection on her otherwise smooth skin. Tom bent low and kissed along the faint, hairline mark, flicking his tongue over the puckered skin. Metis tangled her fingers in his hair. "Don't," she said, as though his touch hurt her. "I don't like to be reminded of it."

He lifted his head, resting one hand on her belly. "It reminds me how close I came to losing you. Let me remember, Metis. I need to remember how that felt."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't imagine how it was. Should anything ever take you from me, I'm certain I would die."

"I wanted to die. Left all alone, with you cold in my arms." He shivered. "Never again. I won't let that happen again."

He slid up her body and kissed her mouth. She wrapped her arms around him, as if to assure him that her flesh was still warm.

"But you saved me… again. You brought me back – I still don't know how you did that, Tom." Metis opened her eyes to look up at him, cupping his face with one hand.

"Death is like anything else, Metis. There isn't anything that can't be overcome."

"And you think you know how?" The expression on her face was concerned now.

"Don't worry. I only have the idea of it now I see that it's really possible. But I'll be careful." He kissed her again, feeling her mouth relax under his and her whole body seem to open to him. She let him pull her arms wide and pin them to the ground. 

A bird called out in the afternoon stillness, but the only other sounds were the gentle lapping of lake water against the shore and slight breeze rustling leaves in the forest. They were breathing together in time with the rippling water, and Tom felt that all was as it should be.

***

__

La Traviata had never been one of June's favorite operas. Violetta and Alfredo were too melodramatic for her taste, and his father a cardboard cut-out villain. But still, she admitted to herself, closing her eyes and leaning back against her heavy burgundy plush chair to listen to _Sempre Libera_, the music was beautiful. 

In their darkened box, high above the melodramatics of the lovers on the stage, Albus reached over and almost shyly placed his hand over hers. June's eyes flew open at the small, unexpected touch, but she managed to quash the impulse to pull her hand away.

Turning her attention to Albus, though, brought a smile to her face. For their foray out into the Muggle world he'd been forced to trim his hair and beard, lest they be even more conspicuous than they were bound to be already.

"Sapped all your strength, Samson?" she'd teased when he'd come to collect her that evening.

"Perhaps I should have let you cut it off in that case," he'd smiled in return, before assuring her that he could grow it back with the swish of a wand whenever he pleased.

He still looked slightly uncomfortable, a bit like a newly-shorn lamb, ill at ease and not entirely sure where to put his feet. He turned to her, as though reading her thoughts, and said quietly, "At least you look lovely, though." Which earned him a not entirely serious slap on the arm.

Once he'd turned back to the stage, flipping his gold opera glasses expertly with one agile wrist, June ran an appreciative eye over him. He looked completely unlike himself, it was true, but she thought the dinner jacket suited him nicely. Lord only knew if it was proper Muggle attire for the opera – even June's knowledge of Muggle fashions didn't extend quite that far. But she thought they cut a rather dashing pair, nonetheless. She smoothed the pale gold and black damask of her own gown with appreciation.

During the interval, she waited while Albus sought out overpriced cocktails for them both. June lit a cigarette patiently, and watched the crowd ebb and flow around her in the high-ceilinged foyer. At least here there was no chance of running into anyone they knew. People were beginning to talk about them, and it made her very uncomfortable. June should have been used to that kind of attention, but somehow, this was different than the speculations about her relationship with Hayden. Perhaps, because in this case, she knew that the rumors were rooted in some kind of truth.

The evening slipped past, bringing the opera to its tragic conclusion – Violetta wasted away with consumption and guilt, Alfredo admitted he still loved her, his father repented and no one was really very surprised. Afterward the crowd spilled out into Covent Garden, fumbling their well-dressed ways through the unlit square, a ritual that had become second nature after four years of blackouts.

Stumbling slightly through the darkness, Albus and June managed to hail a taxi, its headlamps all but covered with some sort of heavy, oiled paper. 

"Where to?" the driver asked, and once again June marveled at the way the Muggles adapted to this war. With every trip she made into Muggle London, she got a feeling of mixed respect and discomfort. And though the tide of the war finally appeared to be turning in Britain's favor, June still felt uneasy.

Albus gave the driver an address near June's flat, as there was no way a Muggle taxi could get any closer to it. Albus was spending the better part of the summer at his mother's townhouse in Regents Park, but he insisted on seeing June home, despite her protests.

In the wide backseat of the taxi, June turned to him and said, with a rueful half-smile, "Really, Albus. You're being terribly Victorian about this. It's so far out of your way and…"

"Victorian?" he smiled back. "I think I'll take that as a compliment. My mother tried to bring me up as a gentleman – it's good to see her efforts weren't completely wasted." He reached for her hand again, somehow finding it effortlessly in the dark. "I know I promised not to pressure you – and I've tried not to…"

"Albus, really… I…" June tried to pull her hand away.

"There's no need to sound so panicked. I'm not about to propose marriage or anything so terrible as that," he said softly. "I just thought you might enjoy a trip to the country. I'm going to Abingdon to see my dear old Aunt Ada. But I didn't want you to think I was presenting you to the family or anything like that."

June couldn't stifle a laugh. "Yes, especially as your entire family has known me since I was four. Honestly, Albus. If I didn't know you better I'd say you were making fun of me."

"So does that mean you'll go?" She could hear the laughter in his voice, tinged with something like relief.

"Why not? A nice drive into the country would do me good."

"You want me to drive, do you?"

"It would be rather refreshing, don't you think? If you don't want to, I could always drive."

"Oh, no. It better be me – more gentlemanly that way. Definitely more Victorian." The upholstery creaked as he leaned back against the seat, and June could feel the warm pressure of his shoulder against hers. "Well, that's settled then."

***

A few days later, Albus entered the eerily quiet halls of the British Museum, bypassing closed and empty exhibits for the North Library. Most of the art treasures and other important pieces had been secured in underground shelters, while only the Library remained open to the public.

Only a few scattered readers haunted the Library when Albus reached it. Making sure no one was watching, he moved along the shelves until he found the volume he desired. He slid his wand out from beneath his sleeve and tapped the Abbé Fausse-Maigre's _The Higher Common Sense_ once smartly with the tip.

A section of the high bookcase shimmered, and very suddenly was no longer there. Albus slipped through into a cool, hidden corridor lit only by torches. The corridor opened into a wide, marble entryway, lit by an enormous gothic chandelier, with corridors off-shooting in different directions from the atrium. In the center of the entryway a large display held a piece of parchment inscribed with an enchanted map and the words "Welcome to the British Museum of Magical History." Albus looked down at the map, quickly locating a tiny figure with the words "You Are Here" blinking above its head.

Abandoning the map, Albus chose the rightmost corridor and headed off in the direction of the research staff offices. Once there, a courteous receptionist greeted him and directed him to the appropriate office.

With a promise that his host would be there shortly, Albus settled himself in Brendan Pendrell's cramped, untidy office, adjusting his spectacles for a closer look at a flawlessly rendered copy of one of Helga Hufflepuff's journals.

"What are you hoping to find, Albus?" Pendrell asked, entering the room a few moments later bearing a tea tray and a huge, toothy grin.

"Hello, Brendan," Albus said, standing to shake the other man's hand. "Wonderful to see you again."

"Likewise. You've been hiding yourself away lately." Pendrell took a seat behind his desk. "Sorry about the entrance, by the way – it's a bloody nuisance having to come in the back way, but with the Muggle wing of the museum being closed there's little we can do about it." The main entrance to the Magical History Wing was through an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus that was currently residing safely beneath the Aldwych tube station. "So what can I do for you today?"

"I'm a step ahead of you," Albus replied, holding up the copy of Hufflepuff's journal. "You just happened to leave the exact item I needed lying about on your desk."

"Really?" Pendrell looked intrigued. "This isn't about that impossible book of Scoresby and Dent's, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is. I think I'm rather close to something."

Pendrell laughed good-naturedly. "Albus, really… The finest minds in England determined that book to be nothing more than a hoax – an extremely clever hoax, but a hoax nonetheless. How do you take your tea, anyway?"

"Just black, thanks." Albus returned the smile, and accepted a mismatched cup and saucer. "Well, that's where I differ from your opinion, Brendan. And I mean to find proof."

"Well, I'll do what I can to help, old man, but I hate to see you tilting at windmills." Pendrell sipped his tea in silence while Albus flipped through the journal, occasionally making notes.

"I say!" Pendrell said, suddenly. "Would you like a glimpse at the original? The exhibit is closed for the moment, but I'm sure I could sneak you in. The copies are well and good, but they don't include any of the artwork."

"If you don't mind at all…"

"Of course not! What good is a position of responsibility if one can't abuse it every once in awhile?"

Gulping down the remainder of their tea, Albus followed Pendrell out of his office and through the labyrinthine corridors. They ended in a marble-floored, circular room, which placards proudly declared held the exhibits on "Early British Magic – Pre-Roman Paganism to the Early Christian Period."

Pendrell grinned, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling with the movement, and waved a hand around. "Well, old friend, here it is. My little fiefdom. I'm rather proud of the new pieces, I must say."

He stepped up to a display where several ancient, leather and brass-bound books seemed to revolve in midair. Easily disarming the wards, he reached in, pulled out one of the volumes, and handed it to Albus. As if of its own accord, the book fell open in Albus' hands, revealing a page with no written words, but instead a detailed sketch drawn by a talented hand. Albus' eyes widened.

From over his shoulder, Pendrell chuckled. "Gave the art history chaps a time of it with those." He laughed again. "Our Helga was a bit before her time. Look at the perspective…" He traced a finger along the illustration. "She could have single-handedly brought about the Renaissance if she'd wanted."

Albus stared down at the subjects of the drawing – according to the note in the margin, a young Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw. They stood beside a lake that looked somehow familiar to Albus, their hands clasped over something between them, their eyes defiant, looking like a pair of rebel angels.

"These journals are the only surviving personal records we have of any of the Founders. Until Le Fanu stumbled across them in 1909, we were even more in the dark about the Founders than we are now." Pendrell picked a second book from the display. "Unfortunately, the journals begin in Hufflepuff's childhood, stop when she's in her late teens and don't start up again until nearly one hundred years after the Gryffindor-Slytherin Schism." Pendrell chuckled. "The old girl lived a nice, long life. We figure she was just nigh of two hundred when she finally passed on. But whether the journals for the missing years never existed or she destroyed them is anybody's guess.

"Now here's her first entry after she started back up again… Near as we can tell, both men were dead at this point." He gingerly opened the book to an appropriate page to illustrate. "Hufflepuff certainly refers to them as though they are, but that's pretty ambiguous evidence. It would be helpful if there were a reliable way of dating the journals, but that's another point of contention – experts have dated them as being anywhere from eight-hundred to twelve-hundred years old."

"So the only thing we know conclusively is that we don't know anything conclusively?" Albus asked with a raised eyebrow and laughter in his voice.

Pendrell grinned back, running a hand through his sandy hair. "You said it." He shook his head. "I don't envy you this task, Albus. I can't think of a more controversial piece of wizarding history. Even if you do find anything conclusive, you're going to have a hell of a time getting anyone to listen." He carefully put the book he was holding back in the display. "I'm not sure I subscribe to any of the theories about what exactly happened during those missing years – but one thing I am sure of is that it had to be something pretty disastrous. Otherwise, the pieces of the puzzle won't fit, you know?"

Albus smiled at his old friend. "Do you have any theories of your own?"

"Oh, not really. Nothing publishable at any rate," Pendrell threw him a sidelong glance. "But I do know that I don't buy the sanitized version we teach in our schools."

"Good lord, Brendan! You haven't joined the camp that thinks the falling out was over some woman, have you?" Albus asked, laughing.

"I'm not so far gone as that. But there is some validity to that argument… Don't make that face, old man. Hear me out… As I was saying, that argument has some validity as an additional factor. I wouldn't go so far as to say that was the cause of it all, but a rivalry between the two men may have exacerbated the situation, or even have been the seed that germinated it all, so to speak."

"Then the question remains, who was the lady? And what did she have to say about it all?" 

Pendrell clapped Albus on the shoulder. "That we may never know. But let me show you something else…" He led Albus over to a second display, similar to the first, but slightly disorderly. "Excuse the mess, we're reorganizing these – Here, we have texts written, we believe, by all four – mainly academic stuff – from before the Schism. Essays on the nature of magic and the like. Nothing like what you're looking for, but you're more than welcome to take copies. There may be some clue we've all missed."

Pendrell summoned a research assistant, giving the young woman a list of copied texts to pull for Albus, and then led them back to his office.

"Those will be waiting for you at the desk on your way out. I sincerely hope they help." Pendrell sat and poured second cups of tea for them both. "Now let's have a look at this infamous book of yours."

Obligingly, Albus hefted the book onto the desk between them and opened it to the last passage he'd translated. "I know you don't believe this book is worth the paper it's printed on, Brendan, but I really think I'm onto something. This is what I'm trying to run down – I've just finished translating these late passages. Ravenclaw-" Here Pendrell looked skeptical. "If it truly was Ravenclaw," Albus amended. "But here she writes about Slytherin's heir in detail. And what I'm trying to get to the bottom of is this passage where she talks about the four Keystones – four events that have to take place before the Heir of Slytherin shows hims-" Abruptly he stopped. "You don't buy a word of this, do you?"

The other man shrugged. "Albus, you've got to admit, it sounds like something out of a penny dreadful. Ancient prophecies, hidden artifacts and a "chosen" one – really. Just add in a decrepit, old manor house with a mad aunt locked in the attic and you'd find yourself on the Times' bestseller list."

"The fact remains that there are too many unanswered questions about the Founders to ignore this. This book was dismissed far too quickly by people unwilling to face the possible truths about the foundations we've based modern wizarding society on."

"Albus, I'm not debating that point. I know as well as anyone what a tinderbox the Slytherin question is – anything that sheds light on it should not be ignored. But conversely, one shouldn't necessarily accept something wholesale because it seems to shed light on the question."

Albus laughed, raising his hands in concession. "Pax. We'll agree to disagree. I've needed a good academic wrangle, and you are a worthy opponent."

"Well, I'll leave you to your intrigues and cryptic prophecies, and you can leave me to my ancient papers and deadly dull fundraisers. But," he chuckled, "if you find a cursed ruby that was once the eye of some vengeful Eastern idol, I want a percentage of the spoils."

"That's quite enough of that…" Albus began, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

But Pendrell was on a roll. "Or, perhaps, you'll be waylaid by the idol's cult, determined to return their god's eye to its sacred resting place, or get shanghaied by a Chinese opium merchant, or…" 

"Does the Academy know about your pleasure reading habits? I'm surprised they allow that sort of thing at the Historian's Club."

Pendrell waved a dismissive hand. "I just hide my Muggle paperbacks inside a thick copy of Bagshot's _Magi-Historical Compendium_ and no one's ever the wiser."

"Anyway, Brendan, I'm off for the weekend. Thanks for your help."

"I only hope it does some good," the other man replied. "Where are you headed to, anyway?"

"Oh, just out to the country," Albus said, casually.

Pendrell grinned again. "With that delicious blonde of yours, no doubt. I don't know how you do it." He shook his head. "Well, if you are going to be in the country, I'd suggest avoiding any foggy, midnight strolls. And mind you don't sleepwalk!"

"Really, Brendan…" Albus shook his head helplessly, gathering up his books and papers and moving to leave.

"And stay off the moors!" Pendrell laughed, and showed Albus to the door.

***

__

'I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings,' Tom quoted to himself as he waited. As a child, he'd taught himself to read on cheap detective thrillers and pulpy paperbacks, filching them from the sale bins of shabby bookstops and reading them by the light of a stub of waxy candle beneath his covers. The scene before him now could well have been from one of those stories.

The mid-summer moon was full and silver-white, casting its reflected light on the purple highlands. Clouds like ripped and torn cotton wool rippled across the night sky, occasionally blocking the moonlight and turning the moor to pitch.

Somewhere a wolf howled in the distance. And still Tom waited.

After a few more minutes, someone else appeared on the moor. "Well, you picked a hell of a place for a meeting," said Denis Cathcart, sauntering over to where Tom stood, flanked by a pair of heavy, stone pillars.

"Hello, Denis," Tom said carefully. "I'd begun to think you weren't coming."

"So what is this all about, Tom?" Denis asked, insolently casual as always.

"I just thought we needed to clear a few things up between us," Tom replied, as the other boy joined him between the pillars.

"Oh, come on. You can't still be angry about New Year's. That was simply ages ago – and, anyway, I proved my point."

"What point was that, Denis?" Tom asked softly.

"Metis has too strong a hold over you. You know it, and that's why it bothered you so much. If you're really serious about being a leader, you needed to see that-" Denis cut off abruptly as Tom caught hold of his wrist with one long-fingered hand. 

"That's not why, and we both know it. You crave power for yourself – not a bad thing, necessarily. If you weren't hungry, you'd be useless to me. But you gamble too much, Denis. You're reckless, and worse than that, you're stupid. You spend your power and charm needlessly, betting on losing propositions as easily as winning ones. I can't allow that, not when it threatens to compromise me and all that I've worked to achieve." Tom reached out and, almost effortlessly, caught Denis' other wrist in an iron grip. "Did you really think that I would let you get away with all that?"

The moment hung between them, silent except for the stirring of the wind, and faint animal cries in the distance.

The older boy met Tom's gaze defiantly. "You want a fight, Tom? Once and for all to decide who's _really_ in charge here?" He grinned insolently. "I'm more than happy to oblige you. I think you underestimate me."

"No," Tom said, evenly. "I don't want a fight." Abruptly, Tom produced his wand, seemingly from nowhere. He twirled it once between his slender fingers, before thin cords burst from the tip, snaking around Denis' wrists and ankles, tying firm knots and leaving him bound by the arms between the two pillars. He hung there for a moment in shock; his arms stretched grotesquely, the shoulders nearly dislocated. Tom stepped back, admiring his handy work, cocking his head to listen to the howling of the wolves, now closer and more frequent.

"Wait?! What the bloody hell? This isn't funny!" Denis cried, realizing abruptly what was making those sounds.

"I'm told," Tom continued carelessly, "that they used to stake traitors out on this spot and leave them for the wolves – not ordinary wolves, of course."

Denis cursed viciously, and pulled at the restraints.

"Oh, they'll hold. I made sure of that." Tom leaned in close. "You must understand that I am deadly serious about this. You played a very stupid game and lost. That has consequences." He relieved the other boy of his wand, tossing it to the ground, just out of reach. "You can't get away, Denis, those ropes aren't the only things holding you here. It was rather stupid of you – going out by yourself on the night of the full moon. Don't you agree?"

"You will not get away with this, Tom. Someone will know."

"How? Did you tell anyone where you were going? Who you were going to meet?" Tom smiled crookedly. "I didn't think so."

Denis turned and peered into the night, his face white with terror, trying to see how close the werewolves actually were. "Tom, please…"

Tom moved forward, leaning in to speak in the other boy's ear. "Have you learned your lesson, then?"

"Yes! Damn it all! Let me go!"

Tom stepped back, studying Denis for a long minute, indecision on his face. Finally, he said, "I think not. You always were a wretched pupil, Denis. Somehow I don't think even this would educate you."

Tom glanced up at the moon, smiling as a cloud drifted free and spilled cold, white light on the darkened ground. He moved away from the stone pillars, leaving Denis shouting after him and pulling uselessly on the enchanted ropes.

"I'll see you in hell for this, Tom!" Denis all but shrieked.

"I very seriously doubt that," Tom replied over his shoulder, and Disapparated.

***

The morning they were to leave for Abingdon dawned bright and breezy, which June took as a good omen. She allowed Albus to settle her in the Daimler, while he chivalrously struggled with her bags, stubbornly refusing to use magic to make them fit in the boot. Muggle cars whizzed past, screaming around Piccadilly Circus and onto Regent St. without, it appeared to June, regard for anyone's safety.

It took all of her will not to get out of the passenger's seat and help him. "Albus, you're making me feel useless!" she complained, craning her head around to watch him cram in the last of the bags and slam the lid.

"There. That's done at least." He slid into the driver's seat and smiled at her.

She reached out an unthinking hand toward his hair, but stopped herself in time. "Still short, I see. I would have thought you'd grow it back immediately."

"Yes, well, I thought I'd leave it for awhile and give my mother a thrill."

The engine started with a groan of protest, but was soon thrumming with a steady rhythm. They left London behind quickly, the road opening to green fields on either side, red-bricked, small towns dotting the way as they went.

"Is this your mother's car?" June asked, the wind whipping her dark blonde hair from underneath her pale scarf. "I'd no idea it did more than fly."

"Don't you like it?"

"Oh, no! I love it!" she said, raising her voice to be heard above the motor.

"Good. If we keep this pace up we'll be at dear Auntie's in time for tea. I think you'll like Abingdon – it's terribly quaint. And if you're very good perhaps I'll take you on the river."

"Oh? Do you promise? It's been ages since I did anything so lazy."

He inclined his head toward her, watching the road and tapping the wheel with long fingers. "Summer always leaves me at loose ends – I feel too lazy."

"Hmm. Perhaps you shouldn't have become a schoolmaster, then." She smiled. "Summer hols come with the territory."

"Well, I loved them when I was _in _school." He paused thoughtfully. "It's good to get out of London, though," he said, carelessly. "I can only stomach it for short intervals…"

"Yes, I suppose it is good to get out," June said, his words dredging up the feeling of unrest that had plagued her earlier that morning.

"What is it?" Concerned tinged his voice, and he tried to watch her from the corner of his eye while simultaneously watching the road.

June looked up from where she had the _Times_ neatly folded on her lap as well as the _Prophet_. "Have you seen this today?" she asked, holding up the _Times_.

'First V-1 Hits London!' the headline screamed in block capitals. The picture beneath showed a ruined railway bridge.

"No, I hadn't," Albus said softly, taking the paper from her with one hand. "When did this happen?"

"Last night apparently. It always surprises me – I feel so removed from it all and yet live in the midst of it." She paused, chewing on her lower lip. "This… It… complicates things. For the Ministry, that is."

"How so?" Albus asked, shifting the car into a lower gear.

"I'm sure you know we're involved in the war – only at the very highest levels, of course. And even I don't know the particulars, but this will impact things. After Normandy I really thought we were looking at an end to it all, but it appears I was wrong. I'm very much afraid – if it does go on much longer I think we will become involved directly, and what that will mean…"

"Not necessarily. Bombing London again may be a last-ditch for Hitler."

"Perhaps." June was silent for a long moment, but looked up feeling Albus watching her.

"You know, you can talk to me about it." He grinned ruefully. "Well, I know you _can't_ talk about it, but, er, you can to me… That made no sense whatever, did it?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "It made perfect sense. And, thank you." She reached over and placed her hand on his where it rested on the gearshift.

Abruptly, Albus pulled the car over to the side of the road and, a bit awkwardly, put on the brake.

"What? What is it? Is something wrong?" June half-turned in her seat, peering down at the tires and running board.

"No," Albus leaned over and pushed her gently back down into her seat. "I just couldn't let the moment pass." With both hands still on her shoulders, holding her in place, he leaned in and kissed her softly.

Firmly silencing the voice in her head that insisted this was a very bad idea, June leaned in closer and kissed him back. It was a short, soft kiss, barely begun before it was over, but Albus leaned back in the driver's seat looking very pleased.

"Well, that's a step in the right direction at any rate."

***

Never one to break a promise, by Sunday afternoon Albus had them out on the river. Duly supplied with tea and other provisions from Aunt Ada's kitchen, June and Albus set out from Abingdon Lock.

"Do you prefer up river or down?" Albus grinned, hefting the oars in shirt-sleeved arms and wrinkling his already-sunburned nose.

June laughed. "I've never seen you look so silly." She glanced over his Muggle clothes, which were mildly mismatched and rather out of date.

"Well," he said pulling hard on the oars, "not all of us come prepared for every eventuality." He raised an eyebrow at June, who was looking very comfortable and Muggle-like in a white linen lawn dress.

"I, at least, knew we couldn't go driving around on Muggle roadways clad in magician's robes – people would think we were mad!"

"We are a bit mad," he smiled in return. "Mind the tiller lines, won't you?" He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "This is somehow harder than I remembered it."

"I take it we're going down river then?" 

Albus grinned, looking for all the world like a little boy with a new toy. "I'll take you to see Runnymede, if you like. Or we could flip around, head back up river and see the fabulous Norman church at Iffley."

"Runnymede. Definitely. Better for picnicking." 

"As my lady commands." And down the river they went.

They rowed on in comfortable silence for awhile until Albus shipped the oars, breathing heavily, and announced, "I fear I won't last until Runnymede without my tea. Did you have your heart set on picnicking on the downfall of King John?"

June laughed and unearthed the picnic hamper, pointing out a pleasant spot where they could put in. "I never imagined we'd actually make Runnymede anyway. It's much too far."

"You're probably right," Albus agreed, carefully securing them near a bank of willow trees. "But it was a romantic destination."

"Next time," June said, immediately regretting the promise of commitment inherent in a 'next time.' Albus didn't seem to notice.

After a superb tea, Albusproduced a thick, leather-bound book while June lit a cigarette.

"Are you still studying that?" she asked, inhaling and tossing her match away.

"Yes, still." A shadow crossed his face. "I've translated nearly all the final entries, but I'm still no closer to understanding what they mean."

"Or what it has to do with your friend Scoresby?"

Albus nodded grimly. "If I could only find a connection – the key is there. I can feel it. I just can't seem to put my finger on it, you know."

June nodded, and allowed him to return to reading. Meanwhile, she finished her cigarette and leaned her arms on the side of the boat, watching a pair of dragonflies bob and wheel through a field of wild flowers just beyond their willow trees. June listened to the quiet lapping of water against the sides of the boat, and amused herself by seeing how many different flowers she could identify. Queen Anne's lace, buttercups, purple asters, and wild roses…

June looked up from her contemplation of the flowers and found Albus on the threshold of sleep. The book seemed ready to drop from his hand, his eyes half-closed in the afternoon sun, his head pillowed back against the hamper. Watching him, June experienced the most curious sensation of proprietorship. _This is mine for the taking, if I choose,_ she thought. _How curious that I've never thought of it quite like that before._

The shore was close enough that she could smell the black earth where the river cut the bank away, exposing the willows' roots. The yellow sun shone warm on her head as she sat up and balanced her elbow on her knee, resting her chin on her hand, and tried to resist the urge to nap herself.

"'How wonderful is Death,'" she quoted softly to herself. "'Death and his brother Sleep…'" Moved by some impulse, she slid carefully forward, reaching out a hand to brush aside a lock of Albus' auburn hair. Her fingers just grazed his temple when she snatched her hand back cradling it as though she'd been burned.

"For heaven's sake! Don't fall asleep!" she said suddenly.

Albus jumped guiltily, then opened one eye to look at her. "Why ever not?" 

"Oh, no reason," she blushed, feeling a bit silly. 

He sat up, regarding her with a pleased half-smile on his face, before looking back down at his book. "You know," he mused aloud. "Just before I drifted off, I was sure I'd found something important. It may just have been a dream, of course…" He trailed off, tracing his finger down the page.

"Good lord!" he exclaimed, jumping up and nearly upsetting the boat. It rocked wildly between the poles and June had to hold fast to the sides.

"What is it?"

"I wasn't dreaming! I've had a breakthrough." Albus grabbed hold of her hands and pulled her to her feet. "I don't believe no one else has considered it before, but it's right here." He grabbed up a handful of scribbled notes. "Hufflepuff's later journal entries mention them as well. I've been such an ass!" 

June looked at him uncomprehendingly. Still holding the crumpled papers, he grasped June by the shoulders. "Don't you see? This is the only other place to have mentioned Slytherin's prophecies, so if Ravenclaw's book is just a modern hoax it couldn't possibly mention them. Because Hufflepuff's journals weren't discovered by historians until _ten years after_ this book was supposedly found." The boat rocked dangerously again. "This must be what Scoresby was after – if I can find Slytherin's texts… it will be the missing piece to the puzzle. Like the Rosetta stone…"

"Albus, are you sure?" June asked carefully.

"No, of course not. But it does make sense. I have to know for sure." He stopped, breathless, peering intently down into her face. "Things are falling into place, June. Everything is looking up," he said, and kissed her.

It was a swift, unthinking kiss, one of casual ownership. Before June could react, Albus was speaking again. "We've got to get back. I hate to cut our weekend short, but I have to get back to London and get to work on this."

June merely nodded numbly, and sat back down, a bit bewildered by what exactly he thought he'd found. She watched as he rowed, wishing she could share his enthusiasm. Something about this disquieted her. She had the idea that they were on the edge of something very dangerous indeed, and she couldn't be sure whether it was their changing relationship or this business with Scoresby that truly had her worried.

***

"Hello, Jack. You're working awfully late."

Jack Seward looked up from the scattered papers on his desk to see a silhouette in the half-open door to his office. It was late, and he hadn't expected anyone else to be left in the building.

"Burning the midnight oil. You know how it is." He laid his quill aside. "What's keeping you here, Heidi?"

The figure detached itself from the doorjamb and sauntered into his office, the light from his desk lamp revealing a petite brunette in her late twenties. She had the sort of face no one would ever suspect – a kind of guileless innocence that made her appear younger than she actually was. It also made her invaluable to the Department of Mysteries and to William Price. 

"I thought it might be a good chance for us to talk," she replied, taking a seat on the side of his desk. "People are worried about you, Jack."

"Really? Why on earth?"

"You haven't been the same recently. I'm not the only one who's noticed."

"And people are worried about me?" Seward narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure it's not me that has your boss worried?"

"Jack, we're old friends. Be reasonable…"

"Really, Heidi?" Seward narrowed his eyes at the younger woman. "Knowing what I know about how you people operate, you expect me to believe that Price has nothing to do with you being here? Trying to determine how much I know? Hoping, maybe, that I'll confide in you? So you can go running back to them with information?"

"Believe whatever you like," she retorted, her aura of cordial familiarity abruptly evaporating. "But since you brought it up, know this: You may think you're being clever about this private _crusade_ of yours but people know what you're trying to do. I'd hate to see you hurt, so give it up now."

Seward laughed. "There was a time when I would have believed that you actually cared what happened to me." He stood up behind his desk, leaning forward, resting his palms on his abandoned paperwork, to face her across it. "Now I know better than to believe anything that comes out of your mouth."

Heidi blinked, shrinking back from his angry words. Probably just part of the act, Seward decided grimly.

"You don't know what you're playing with here." She shook her head, worry lining her face grey in the dim light from the single lamp. "I mean it. This is me talking – not the department, not Price. Me - your friend."

Seward straightened back up, folding his arms across his chest and looking her evenly in the eye. "Thanks for the advice. I'll certainly keep it in mind." Heidi sighed and slid off the desk. Moved by some impulse, Seward came out from behind his desk. "Just tell me this," he said, catching her arm as she reached the door. "Were you there? In Albania? With Hart?"

She looked away. Seward shook her arm viciously. "Damn it, Heidi! He was a friend! To us both. How can you justify that? Doesn't anyone have any sense of loyalty anymore?"

"You can't always make the easy decision, Jack," she said in a flat voice, still refusing to meet his gaze. "Sometimes we have to do the thing that's right for the majority, no matter how personally painful."

"That's unmitigated bullshit and you know it. Or do you know it anymore? Has Price filled your head so full of rationalizations that you don't even know right from wrong?"

"You know as well as anyone what dangerous times we live in. We have to…"

"No! We do not have to kill our friends, our colleagues, to keep the Ministry's reputation clean – war or not. I won't believe that."

"I did the right thing, Jack. _We_ did the right thing. I have to believe that. If I don't keep believing it I can't do my job." She placed a soft hand over the one that gripped her arm. "It isn't the way I would have things, but it's the way things are."

"There will come a day," he said softly, looking into her brown eyes and wishing he could believe what he saw there, "when that mantra will lose its meaning. And then you will be just like me. I only hope that no one else has to die the way Hart did before you come to that realization."

"Be careful," she said. "If it were anyone but me you were saying these things to-" Her words were cut off as the door opened suddenly, narrowly missing the pair of them.

"Oh! I am sorry. I didn't expect…" Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway, looking halfway between apologetic and guilty.

"An appointment so late, Jack?" Heidi asked coolly. Her eyes flicked over Dumbledore, something like recognition in her expression, and Seward inwardly cursed himself for a fool. He'd been so caught up that he'd forgotten Dumbledore was due to arrive any moment. Sloppy, he was getting sloppy. Maybe Price was right, and operatives who went soft deserved to be put down like lame horses.

It was too late to do anything about that now. "Goodnight, Heidi," Seward said firmly, pushing her roughly out the door and locking it behind her.

"Problems?" Dumbledore asked mildly.

"No," Seward replied a bit more forcefully than he'd intended. Regaining control, he said, "So what's this you said about Scoresby? You've found something we can use?"

"Yes, I think I have," Dumbledore replied, as both men took seats on either side of the desk. "After all these months, looking through Scoresby's notes, I've had the idea that I was missing something fundamental, something he was basing his work in Albania on. But I'd no idea what it was, or why he'd gone to that particular part of the world. I think I know, now, what that was."

"Really?" Seward raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair.

"In the book Scoresby sent to me, Ravenclaw talks about four 'Keystones' – four events that will take place before Slytherin's heir makes himself known – but she doesn't go into what they are. What she does say though is that Slytherin himself wrote about them in detail. Now, Scoresby went looking for a companion text in Albania and I'm willing to bet money it was these 'Keystones' of Slytherin's." Dumbledore paused for breath, excitement flushing his cheeks. "But there wasn't anything of the sort in the notes your people found among Scoresby's things. Which means one of two things – either he didn't find what he was looking for or he hid his findings."

"Which would mean they're still in Albania, somewhere. Is that it?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I may have to do some more looking before I feel completely sure about this, but it just feels so right. What else could the missing piece be?"

Seward leaned forward, studying the other man. "Researching in books is all well and good, Albus, but it'll only get us so far. Eventually we're going to have to go there. And I'd prefer sooner than later."

"I agree – we need to see for ourselves whether any of Slytherin's writings still exist. And for that we need to go to Albania."

At those words something fundamental stirred in Seward, the same something that had led him to a life as an Unspeakable, a craving for adventure and a reckless attraction to danger. He'd thought that part of him had died along with Hart, but apparently he'd been wrong.

He smiled crookedly at Dumbledore, reveling in the familiar adrenaline rushing through his blood. "When do we leave?"

***

*The chapter title "The Pains of Sleep" is from the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem of the same name. A "penny dreadful" was the slang term for a cheap, pulpy gothic romance. The gold and black damask dress June wears to the opera does actually exist and can be seen [here][10] – I wanted it for me, but settled for letting June wear it. And, yes, Pendrell was named for _the_ Agent Pendrell from _The X-Files_ – bits of this chapter got so XF-esque that it seemed appropriate. Whether Brendan will meet the same fate as his namesake is anybody's guess. ^_^ V-1 rockets were the so-called "flying bombs" developed by the Luftwaffe and dropped on London during the summer of 1944. The scene on the river was directly inspired by Dorothy Sayers' _Gaudy Night_ and the indomitable Lord Peter (see above disclaimer) – but I couldn't resist the opportunity. Though for my pair of lovers the epiphany on the river isn't exactly the same thing it was for Sayers'. Runnymede and the "fabulous Norman church at Iffley" are both nods to Connie Willis' witty _To Say Nothing of the Dog_, which also pays homage to Lord Peter and Harriet on the river. And there are many references to Victorian mystery stories and gothic romances, including Wilkie Collins' _The Moonstone_ and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Hound of the Baskervilles_.

Thanks as always to…

Crymson Tyrdrop, Ebony (Everyone go read the new chapter of [Trouble in Paradise][3] – I'm off to do so myself ^_^), Simon (Ah, the enigmatic Dr. Branford!), AVK, Hillary Bean, Anna (Actually, both Emma and Isabella were "Mrs. Knightley" – they married a pair of brothers ^_^), Auror5 (I agree, I can't picture Tom in love with a blonde, for whatever reason), Julius, Sheryll Townsend (Albus has some foreboding about the implications of saving Tom, but he has no idea the boy is evil!), delentye, Heidi (Hope you were pleased with your cameo – and don't mind being mildly evil. ^_^), Flourish (As always. ^_-), Gwendolyn Grace (Aw. Don't judge Hayden too harshly. He's not such a bad sort, really, underneath it all.), Hymm, Starling (*glomps starling* A fellow Captain Hastings fan!), Jedi Boadicea (Interesting insights into Tom – there are some implications there I hadn't thought of), Rhysenn (Love Oscar Wilde – just finished re-reading _The Importance of Being Earnest_), Lemming (You found this by searching for "Lord Peter?" *laughs* That is interesting. And, yes, Denis was named after Lady Mary's fiancé.), elel88 (We'll see Gaea again, don't worry. I've got big plans for her.), Laetitia Prism (Love LGM. Did you catch sexy Pyjamas!Byers in the Capt. Toby ep.? ^_^;; Anyway, I've sent in my [Save the Gunmen][11] flyer. Have you? *looks at all her readers*).

Delirious, cynical leaf (Yes, Metis and Minerva are related. ^_^ But it's up to you to figure out _how_.), Natasha (The comparison to Connie Willis is a wonderful compliment. I only wish I could write humor as well as she can.), Amara (That picture was great for June, wasn't it?), nosilla (June drinks a bit too much, eh? ^_^;), Quill, Visser Voldemort (I believe, and I could be wrong, that "Ruth" isn't the Hebrew word for friend so much as it's a name associated with the idea of friendship. Stemming, of course, from the Old Testament story. ^_^), Mina, IckleRonnikins, Tals, teal llama, Puzzler (Gaea will be back, never fear. And _The Great Gatsby_ is wonderful – go read it!), Sorceress (Kinky stuff? *faints* As for Gaea being Asian – remember the wizarding community isn't involved in the war. And I'm of the opinion that ethnicity/nationality aren't very important issues for the magical community – purity of blood seems much more likely to be a source of prejudice.), Quare Bungle Rye (I haven't left Minerva out. ^_^ Just wait. She's _very _important in this story.), Minzzer (Everyone go check out Minzzer's [archive][12]), Emerald, Amanda Mancini (Gaea? No relation to Cho. Gaea is Korean and I always imagined Cho as Chinese. ^_^), Pylite, Katia, Aira (Thanks for the compliment – I worried a lot about the OCs at the start of this), Colin (Colin-kun!), Cyn, Emily, Brigid and anyone I may have left out over in Paradise. And, on that note…

Come join us in [Paradise][13]! Now there's more reason than ever. Free virtual Mai Tais and hula lessons if you sign up today! ^_^

   [1]: mailto:viola_1895@yahoo.com
   [2]: http://www.geocities.com/metis_dreamwalk/series.html
   [3]: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/HP_Paradise
   [4]: http://www.sugarquill.com/
   [5]: http://www.schnoogle.com/
   [6]: http://www.geocities.com/metis_dreamwalk/annotatedbib.html
   [7]: http://www.bartleby.com/139/shel111.html
   [8]: http://www.geocities.com/metis_dreamwalk/sayers.html
   [9]: http://www.geocities.com/metis_dreamwalk/willis.html
   [10]: http://cyboard.com/cgi-bin/catspjs/newcart.cgi/id=6692.aca52c7b.ipt.aol.com&command=print&refer=30-2.html
   [11]: http://lonegunmen.furvect.com/lgmseas2.htm
   [12]: http://minzzer.tripod.com/fanfics.htm
   [13]: groups.yahoo.com/group/HP_Paradise



	8. Everybody Comes To Rick's

DREAMWALK BLUE - CHAPTER SEVEN

A/N: That'll teach me to work on multiple projects. Of course, moving to the other side of the country may have had something to do with the delay, too. But, hey! It's only been… er, four months since Chapter 6. ^_^; I promise Chapter 8 will not take anywhere near that long. The next chapter of _Occasional Rain_ will be making its appearance shortly, too. *crosses fingers* As will a Dumbledore ficlet (that I _will_ finish, even if it kills me *faints*) – so be on the lookout for those. And I've beaten back more plot bunnies for other fandoms than I can count. (^_- I call the _Angel_ bunny 'Bunnicula.' …What?) 

Thanks to Flourish and Karina – who are both wonderful for trying to get this beta-ed on short notice. And to Tobias, Monika and Natasha who are responsible for the flawless German in this piece – thanks for playing language consultants. My Albanian is atrocious and I know it – what did you expect from someone who's linguistic skills are limited to saying things like "How much are these boots?" and "I am the beautiful, sailor-suited fighter for justice! I shall punish you by the power of Venus!" in Japanese. Yeah. That's what I thought. Anyone out there want to volunteer their Balkan language expertise?

And, as always, music to read by can be found here (http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Comet/7987/jazz.htm).

Chapter Seven: June makes gin and tonics and an important decision, Albus and Seward debate the merits of Communism, a familiar diary finally makes its appearance and a pair of intrepid travelers pass through the gate of Moria (or is it?).

Also - Hey. ^_^ If you haven't gotten by now that this is slightly dark and not for the faint of heart, I can't be held responsible. This time around our heroes get up close and personal with some of the nasty realities of the war. The violence is not graphic but it is there. In light of recent events, I understand that some people may find this uncomfortable. 

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction – I have no moral, legal or ethical claim on any of what is found herein. The main source material is the trademarked/copyrighted property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling, Bloomsbury/Scholastic, Warner Bros., et al. This is a fan work, not for profit and/or revenue. No one else is intended to profit monetarily and/or generate revenue from it either. Other sources are cited in the notes at the end of each chapter. If this is deemed unsatisfactory, a footnoted version is available on request and historical references are cited on my website. 

This fic is also archived here (http://www.schnoogle.com/authors/viola/DB07b.html). Go on. Try it. (The first one's free, kid…) What? Afraid you might like it? ^_-

CHAPTER SEVEN – EVERYBODY COMES TO RICK'S 

Ilsa: (to Rick) I wasn't sure you were the same. Let's see, the last time we met was -  
Rick: (finishing her sentence) La Belle Aurore.  
Ilsa: How nice. You remembered. But of course, that was the day the Germans marched into Paris.

Rick: Not an easy day to forget.  
Ilsa: No.  
Rick: I remember every detail. The Germans wore grey. You wore blue.  
Ilsa: Yes. I put that dress away. When the Germans march out, I'll wear it again.

(from _casablanca,_ 1942) 

It was the end of world.

It was her every childhood nightmare, and then some, come to life. 

Men lay like matchsticks, discarded in an open field, burnt and bloodied, the scent of sulfur and blood heavy on the air. Behind her the sea ran red. She stood on an abandoned cliff-top, the Atlantic crimson and grey in the early morning sun, while a salt-scarlet breeze whipped insistently at her hair.

Then suddenly the sea dissolved, and she was trapped in a room – long, low, dark and walled in grey concrete. Sobs, bloodstains and the sour smell of fear soaked the floors and air.

__

What is this place?

She wandered blindly through the dank corridors, the sounds of muffled, unspeakable human cruelty behind every door. Fire, steam, electricity and the vomit-sweet smell of baking stones assaulted her senses. How she knew what lay beyond those empty-eyed doorways, she couldn't say. But the knowledge sat like lead in her chest and she just barely resisted the urge to run.

__

I am a witness. Someone must see this, must speak for those who can no longer speak themselves.

At the end of one very long hallway, a door yawned open before her. Compelled, she walked toward it, through it, closing her eyes against what she feared she would see.

It was a room like every other in this place. Only here, the cold, grey concrete walls were covered with a soft, matted material – soundproofing to muffle the evidence of this barbarity from the world.

There were deep grooves in the grey matting, looking, from where she stood in the doorway, like abstract art. She moved closer, reaching a hand out to trace those complex marks. Realization dawned and she jerked her hand away.

__

Handprints. 

They were human handprints, dug deep in the soundproofed wall with scrabbling fingers and jerky death convulsions. Almost against her will, she lifted her hand again and placed it against a particularly clear indentation. It was half the size of her own hand; tiny, delicate fingers had made this print.

__

A child's hand.

She dropped to her knees, retching, trying valiantly not to be sick on that hateful concrete floor. Sweating, freezing, she wasn't sure how long she remained that way, kneeling with one hand still pressed against the matting.

Recovering herself, she struggled to her feet, using the wall as leverage. When she looked, she realized her own hand had left its print there among all the others.

The scene shifted around her and changed just perceptibly, until, looking up, she realized that she was no longer trapped in those dark, underground rooms. Instead, she found herself in London – only it wasn't her familiar London – it was an alien city, filled with noise and neon.

She followed the press of the crowd around her, the scream of automobile traffic nearly deafening her, before she realized that someone _was_ screaming – a wail of desolation and betrayal that chilled her to the core. It was a death rattle, a shriek and a challenge all at once.

Afraid of what she might find, she made her cautious way around the corner onto a side street. A crowd had gathered there, around a dark-haired, young man. His face was grey, ashen with grief and his eyes unfocused.

The street was crowded, the press of people claustrophobic around her. Close, too close. They needed to get back, to get away from that boy with the blank eyes and trembling hands. Fire and death were waiting in the shadows unless they got away from this place.

She grabbed hold of the arm of a passerby. "Don't go any closer. You have to believe me." The man shook her off without a backward glance and kept walking.

She stood, letting the people pass her by like flowing water. Then the scene around her went perfectly still, the screaming, neon noise giving way to a moment of absolute silence. There was magic in the air. She could feel its dry electric spark in the twilight, crackling in her hair and skittering across her skin. The entire street seemed to take a breath as one, preparing. A street lamp above her head shattered, sending slivers of glass and wire into the crowd. The flashing neon lights flickered and died with a soft, silken sigh. The headlamps on traffic-jammed cars dimmed, and the street descended into gloom. People stood as though transfixed, and waited for fate and the moment to do with them as they would. 

Just as the silence reached its breaking point, stretched taut, sharp and dangerous like piano wire, she felt a hand descend on her shoulder… and June woke with a cry, starting so violently that she knocked a vase of delphiniums from her night table. 

June reached out with a trembling hand and switched on her lamp. The light flared to life, chasing shadows to the corners of the room. Blue-purple blossoms lay in a puddle of water and shattered glass on the floor beside the bed. June took a deep breath and gathered the blankets more firmly around herself.

She'd been dreaming since Albus left – deep, vivid, technicolor dreams that left her breathless and trembling, chill-boned even in the summer heat. She told herself the dreams were the product of her troubled spirit – she was afraid as she'd never been before, afraid for Albus, afraid for the whole world. But something deep within told her the dreams were that, but also something more.

So, she spent every night fighting sleep, only to wake to the silent shadows of pre-dawn still, and wish fervently that she wasn't in her bed alone.

__

I miss him, she admitted sheepishly to herself. _Here I am, a grown woman, afraid of my own dreams… _But, she knew that her imagined terrors were only a pale shadow of what he could be facing at that very moment._ All I want is to know that he's all right_, she thought, and then hated herself for thinking it. No matter what happened, she had to be stronger than this.

Flinging the bedclothes off, she swung her legs out of bed and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As the water began to boil, she leaned against the windowsill, half-listening for the kettle's shriek, and watched the moon. It was very bright tonight, bathing the world in white light.

She wondered if Albus was awake and if he could see the moon, then cursed herself for a fool. The kettle wailed and she pulled herself away from the window, firmly pushing all thoughts of dreams or war, or love or weakness, out of her head.

***

By the light of a blessedly full moon, Albus could just make out the silver thread of the road stretching away into the purple hills before them. The scene tonight was ironically peaceful – a cool, August evening, well-lit, with only the slightest pleasant breeze.

But there was menace in that stillness. Even the owls had ceased hooting – the forest on either side of the road seemed to be holding its breath in the moonlight.

__

It's too_ quiet_, Albus thought wryly.

Seward paused beside him, a cautioning hand outstretched. "Stay here. I think there's someone up ahead."

Albus scooted back into the shadow of a gnarled pine tree by the roadside and waited. This journey onto the war-burdened continent had been both better and worse than he'd expected. Better because they had actually made it here to Albania, an outcome that had never been certain, and worse because living the reality of this war had hit him like a slap in the face.

Surprisingly, they'd gotten as far as Crete before running into any real trouble. After that, Apparating was out of the question. The local wizards had set defensive wards all through the countryside, intending to trap anyone unfriendly who might try to come through. An ill-placed Apparation could have ended their trip abruptly with a particularly nasty breed of splinching. The magical landscape was as pock-marked and barricaded as the physical one, making their progress slower than they'd anticipated.

Coming up through revolution-torn Greece, they'd managed to avoid the fiercest of the guerilla fighting, but still had to move cautiously, skirting towns and traveling only at night.

The tiniest rustle of the underbrush was his only cue that Seward had returned. He emerged next to Albus, keeping his head down and motioning that the other man should do the same.

"There are five of them, just up ahead." Seward waved carefully in a direction slightly to the northeast. "Resistance fighters by the look of them." He hefted the Luger he'd taken from a dead German soldier two days before. He nodded, and Albus started carefully forward.

When they reached the bend in the road the five men were waiting for them.

"Kapitulloj juaj arme," the leader said, pointing his weapon in their direction. Getting no response, he tried again in German. "Waffen runter!"

"Wir sind nicht Ihre Feinde," Seward replied, with only a trace of an accent. Seward moved forward, placing the Luger on the ground, and stepping back, arms spread wide. 

The exchange continued for a moment before an agreement seemed to be reached. The leader stepped out of his chosen shadow, and Albus realized he couldn't have been much more than sixteen.

"English," he said, with a heavy, slurring accent. He motioned to the gun on the ground, and spoke to Seward again in German. Seward nodded and bent cautiously to reclaim the weapon.

"English," the boy repeated, nodding as if he'd expected it. He turned to the others, still hidden in shadow and said something Albus couldn't understand.

"Come with us, English," the boy said, motioning for them to follow. Seward holstered the Luger and followed. 

Albus caught his arm. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I think so – they may be able to help us."

Up close the Resistance fighters proved to be nothing more than a band of malnourished teenage boys, not one of them over seventeen from the looks of them. They were dressed in patched and dirty clothing, obviously stolen from dead German soldiers, and armed with clean but notched submachine guns.

The boys led the two men to a clearing, where two more boys waited with an overburdened pony and a handful of knapsacks.

The leader said something to them in Albanian – obviously an all-clear because they relaxed their holds on their guns, but still watched the two newcomers warily. One of the boys patted the restless pony with his free hand, while the leader spoke again to Seward in German.

After a moment, Seward said, "Come on then. We're going with them."

"Going with them? Really?" Albus eyed the boys as they fingered their guns nervously.

"Just play along with whatever I say, right?" Seward replied shortly, and turned to catch up with the leader.

They walked for ages, moving steadily upward, above the sea-eroded cliffs and into the craggy mountains. Albus kept his focus on Seward, occasionally favoring the other man with a questioning look. Seward pointedly ignored him, choosing instead to pepper the leader with questions in German.

After around an hour had passed, Seward dropped back to speak quietly with Albus. They had come over a rise and were gazing down at a glacial gash in the rocks filled with frigid, black water. On the far side of the little valley, a series of caves gaped in the rock face.

"That's where we're headed," Seward said, indicating the caves with one hand.

"Where are they taking us?" Albus whispered.

"To their leader, of course," Seward replied with a wry smile. "Relax, Dumbledore. These guys hate the Nazis almost as much as we do. Petrit," he indicated the boy he'd been speaking with, "tells me they're taking us to meet their boss. Hopefully there will be beer."

They hiked wordlessly across the valley, skirting the edges of the bottomless lake, the moon reflected across its obsidian surface. A network of expertly camouflaged trails led up to what appeared to be the largest of the caves. There was no sign of any life until a sentry materialized from the scrubby brush beside the path.

The sentry spoke briefly to the boys, sized Seward up and then allowed them to pass. They entered the cave swiftly and quietly. The air inside proved several degrees colder than the outside, clammy and chilled. The hairs on the back Albus' neck pricked up as a draft from a cross-tunnel wafted across their path. Their path emptied out into a large central cavern, lit carefully by strategically placed electric lights. It was even colder in this room.

Crates lined the walls of the cavern, covering every available space except where a few tunnels branched off into the bowels of the cave. A crude table sat in the center, fashioned from roughly-cut boards. A group of people bent over this table studying a large map. The one in the center of the group looked up severely at their approach.

"Ah," said Seward, beside him. "There's the boss."

To Albus' very great surprise 'the boss' proved to be a girl of about eighteen, petite and refined-looking even in such desperate surroundings. She regarded the two newcomers imperiously and spoke to the boys in haughty Albanian.

Seward and Petrit engaged in a rapid, but lengthy discussion in German, which the boy related to the leader in Albanian. She crossed her arms and replied sharply, her gaze fixed on the pair of them.

Petrit turned to them again. "Alba wishes to know why you have not brought us the supplies we were promised."

Seward appeared completely unruffled. "Tell her they're coming. We ran into heavy German fire and…"

The boy cut him off, speaking quickly in German.

"Tell her…" Seward began. "Oh, hell. Explain that… wir haben vor unsere Versprechen einzuhalten, aber wir müssen auch auf die Deutschen achten. Euere Lieferung kommt mit dem nächsten Abwurf.

This seemed to satisfy Alba for the moment, because she nodded dismissively and turned to speak to a young man standing next to her. Petrit came forward and spoke softly to them in his laborious English.

"You are to be fed, then I am to show you where to sleep."

They followed him to a small cave to the right of the main cavern. A low table was set with benches that looked as though they'd been hastily bound together from torn branches and hastily split logs. Albus sat down carefully, half-afraid the whole affair would collapse under his weight. The table was laid with heavy brown bread and a pitcher of clear but suspiciously pungent liquid.

Petrit sat down with them, looking exhausted.

"You okay, kid?" Seward asked, between mouthfuls of the bread. Petrit nodded wearily and poured himself a tin mug from the pitcher.

"How is it," Albus began a bit tentatively, "that you are so skilled with languages?"

"I am not sure I-" the boy began.

"He means, who taught you English?" Seward put in helpfully.

The cloud cleared from Petrit's face. "Ah! I understand. I had _der Lehrer_…tutors… as a boy." He paused, searching for the next phrase. "I know some Latin and French as well – but it was…a long time ago." He grinned unpleasantly. "I am better at the German than any of the other."

"Handy," mumbled Seward.

Albus picked up the pitcher and poured his own drink, slugging it back thoughtlessly.

"Hey! Easy on that stuff!" Seward exclaimed, laughing.

Albus managed not cough, but his eyes watered a bit. "And here I thought you were the one who wanted beer," he rasped.

Seward grinned wryly. "Beer sure, but that stuff… if you're lucky it'll only blind you." Seward stuffed the last of his bread into his mouth and stood. "Come on. You look beat – and Petrit's about to faceplant it into the table."

The boy led them away again, Albus stopping to grab another crust of bread from the table and shoving it into a pocket. The narrow corridors and connecting caves blurred together for Albus – he'd never find his way out of here on his own should the need arise. He fervently hoped it didn't.

"You will sleep here," Petrit said, not unkindly, stopping before a small cave and pushing aside the worn blanket that served as a curtain over the entrance. "Tomorrow Alba wishes that you show to her where the Americans are expected."

"Of course," Seward replied, inclining his head politely toward the boy.

"Americans?" Albus hissed, as soon as Petrit was safely out of the room.

"Yes. Apparently, there are some American intelligence agents due to drop in here as well." Seward flopped down onto one of the pallets and stretched his arms above his head. "The Americans seem to have at last got over their fear of our communist friends out there."

"Communist?" Albus knew just enough about Muggle politics to understand that Britain and the United States were less than fond of this particular political system. Though he'd never completely understood why. On the face of it, it sounded like a wonderful idea.

Seward grinned. "Yes, our hosts are rising up against the overclasses like good little socialists." He snorted. "In this case, the oppressors happen to be the Nazis, so I wish them all the luck in the world."

Albus sat on the pallet across from Seward. "I don't pretend to understand half the things Muggles find to fight about." He shook his head.

"What do we do tomorrow?" he asked after a moment, leaning back onto the scratchy straw.

"We help," Seward replied, his voice muffled a bit as he shrugged out of his field jacket and draped it over himself like a blanket. "That's what they think we're here for anyway."

"You didn't set them straight?"

Seward favored Albus with the sort of look one might give a slow child. 

"No, I did not. It's much safer if we're who they expect us to be, understand?" Seward rolled over, trying to get comfortable, then sat up. "I've told them we're from the SOE, but that we aren't the help they were waiting for. I don't want them to call off the search for those agents while there's still hope. If anyone asks, we parachuted in, but missed our drop point by about 20 miles. Got that?"

"Why lie to them at all? Do you think they're dangerous?"

Seward laughed grimly. "I _know_ they're dangerous, but that's not why I spun our little story." He leaned back on the pallet wearily. "You wanted to get us near Fier, right?"

"Yes," Albus replied.

"Well, these caves they're operating out of are about 12 kilometers from Fier, and I'd guess conceal a passage to the ruins at Apollonia."

Albus looked up in surprise. "How did you figure that out?"

"It's my job to know this stuff." Seward levered himself up on one elbow. "Look here. You just follow my lead. We'll help these poor sods out for a week or two till they find their SOE agents, or until they can radio for other help. And meanwhile, we can have a nice look around those caves. They win, we win – we just have to bend the truth a little bit. I trust you don't have a problem with that?" There was the hint of a challenge in the last question.

Albus met Seward's gaze without flinching. "I don't have a problem with it at all."

***

The courier had the look of a man built for this sort of job – nondescript, medium build, dressed in a ubiquitous dark suit of indeterminate cut. A company man. He carried with him an air of quiet confidence and soft menace that put June ill at ease.

They were gathered in Martin Bulfinch's dark, quiet office, curtains drawn, a single lamp casting odd shadows on the heavy wood-paneled walls. The courier sat patiently in a high-backed leather chair by the fireplace, while the Minister of Magic and his advisors held a council of war. A secretary hovered around the assemblage, refilling teacups and rescuing stray papers from the carpet.

June sat a little apart from them, away from the fire and opposite the quiet Muggle. It was not June's place to argue matters of policy, though occasionally Bulfinch asked her opinion. Today she fervently hoped he did not. Some thought the tide of a war hung in the balance here, others that a way of life was threatened. For her part, June thought they were both wrong – and that was not a position she wished to champion publicly. It was arrogance to presume that, magic or no, the relatively small wizarding population could sway the outcome of the war. It was also arrogance to think that the loan of a handful of mediwizards to the Muggles would topple a millennia-old society.

The Minister stepped to the center of the room, waving his wand to remove the silencing charm that had been in place around the conference table.

"Gentlemen, my mind is made up." June recognized the steel in Bulfinch's tone, and knew that any further arguments would be fruitless. "In truth, my mind was made up long before we entered this room… but you have had your say and I thank you for it."

One or two of the men looked ready to object, but the Minister silenced them with a glance and faced the emissary from the Muggle Prime Minister. The man stood, abandoning the chair by the fire, and inclined his head respectfully to Bulfinch.

"I thank you for your patience, Mr. Pym," the Minister began. "But, as I'm sure you understand, this is a rather delicate matter for us."

"I'd say it's a rather more than a delicate matter for all of us," Pym replied, a hint of ironic humor beneath his tone. "I take it you have reached a decision then, Minister Bulfinch."

"Indeed, we have. Again, I thank the Prime Minister for his continued support and discretion with regard to the wizarding community. It is an alliance that does honor to us all." Bulfinch paused, holding the moment expertly like the seasoned politician he was. "You may tell the Prime Minister, Mr. Pym, that we will offer every assistance in the liberation of France."

June started abruptly, the shock surely apparent on her face. She folded her arms across her chest, and regained control of her expression. This was an unexpected move, indeed. She, and, she suspected, everyone else in the room, had expected Bulfinch to offer a token – a few mediwizards or an Auror or two – a diplomatic offering, but nothing more. This was… this was a gamble – a gamble that, dependent on its outcome, would either make Martin Bulfinch a hero or a traitor.

The courier was clearly shocked as well, though he hid it admirably. "Thank you, sir. I will relay your message to Mr. Churchill at once." The hint of what might have been a smile played at the edges of Pym's mouth. "I imagine, sir, that he will be glad of the help."

Bulfinch nodded in return and Pym left.

The door had barely closed behind him, when the assembled advisors broke into frantic speech again. Bulfinch held up a hand for silence.

"It's done. There will be no undoing it."

One man, a battle-hardened politician and old school friend of Bulfinch's, leaned across the polished table and said evenly, "Martin, I don't think you truly understand the precedent you're setting! Yes, there are terrible things happening in this Muggle war, and, I'll grant you, the everyday witches and wizards would like to see us offer humanitarian aid… But this is a dangerous path! If we intervene this once, where will it end?"

"Your opposition has been duly noted, Franklin. If this blows up in my face you have every permission to come say 'I told you so.' Now, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me. I have to prepare a statement for the press… June?"

"Yes, sir," She grabbed up a quill and parchment and followed him over to his desk, as the others left the room in a swish of cloaks and robes.

"Shall I set up a conference, sir? Or would you prefer to address the people directly on the wireless?"

Bulfinch didn't answer. When June looked up from her parchment, she found him regarding her carefully. 

"You don't approve, do you?"

She laid her quill and parchment on the desk, and folded her hands in her lap. "In all frankness, sir," she replied. "No."

"Why?" he said, placing his hands spread wide on the desk. There was no challenge in his voice, simply an intellectual kind of curiosity.

"Because, sir, this is too little, too late. We ought to have committed ourselves to this fight immediately or stayed out of it altogether."

"I agree with you," he replied, surprising June. "Unfortunately, the nature of this office doesn't always allow to me to follow my own convictions alone. I have a responsibility to the people."

"I understand that, sir. But sometimes what the people want is wrong – we only need to look to Germany to see that."

Bulfinch smiled ruefully. "Don't judge the German people too harshly, June. There but for the grace of God go we ourselves."

"Do you really think such a thing could happen in England? I don't believe it."

"Not England, June, but _us_. We – wizards and witches. We're not so very different from those everyday Germans, with our pride, our subtle superiority. If ever we were to produce a Hitler, I'm afraid of how we would react, of the havoc we could wreak on the world."

"Do you believe that? Truly?"

Bulfinch rose from his chair and walked to the window. He pulled the heavy scarlet curtains aside and let in the late afternoon sun. "I'm afraid I do. And that is why this must be done. We have to grow, June. We can't stay this way forever – no good will come of it. It's a changing world, and one in which we have to re-think our place."

"I don't disagree with that, sir. I'm more concerned about how this looks. Every tin-pot dictatorship in South America has declared war on Germany now that the outcome seems certain – is that how you would have history remember us?"

"You forget, June," Bulfinch said, with a touch of bitter humor. "History will not remember us at all." He sat back down behind the desk, steepling his fingers. "Or, if it does, it will be only the history we write for ourselves, to be read by our 'kind.' The only posterity we have to fear is that which we control."

He paused for a moment, still staring out the window on to the sun-drenched square, the ancient marble buildings looking very solid and immovable. June, unable to think of a response, waited in silence.

"All right then, to business." He leaned forward, and rested his elbows on the desk. "No conference. I'll go on the wireless myself; it will be better that way. We should also be sure to have some photographers handy at the recruitment center, be sure the public gets a nice glimpse of those bright, young volunteers."

"Yes, sir." June paused. "Who will we be sending?" she asked hesitantly, the images of massacred Muggle soldiers from her dream coming to her unbidden. The conflict that had plagued her since Albus left squeezed her heart again. She sat very still and hoped it would pass. It didn't. _I should be doing something_, she thought. _I should have done something long ago, but I've been afraid. We've _all_ been afraid._

"Mediwizards mostly, but we will take all volunteers. We won't be sending them to the front, June," he said, as though reading her thoughts. "Most of them have never even seen a gun, so what good would they be? We'll send them in as support troops – medical personnel, supply, reconnaissance. And, of course, the WWN will want correspondents," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"I want to go," June heard herself say, before she had a chance to think it through. "I wrote for _The Daily Prophet_ once, I can do it again."

Bulfinch looked up, surprised. "June, don't be silly…"

"Sir, I'm serious about this." She returned his gaze evenly. "The WWN will need people there. Send me."

"Absolutely not, June! I need you here, now of all times… and besides you're…"

"A woman? There are plenty of Muggle female war correspondents," she countered.

Bulfinch shook his head. "If you insist in this, you know I won't stop you. But please think it through first – it will be very dangerous."

"Yes," June said, swallowing. "It will be very dangerous. But we've been spectators for too long – I'm weary of it." She closed her eyes briefly. "I'm tired of sitting in safety while others risk themselves for the things they believe in, for what's right."

The Minister reached over and laid a hand on her wrist. "I admire your convictions, June. Just be sure you're honest with yourself about _why_ you want to do this."

June sat up, holding herself very straight, and met his eye. "This is the first path in a long time that seems perfectly clear to me. I'm going to France."

***

Night fell on the empty castle, long shadows creeping up the wide expanse of lawn, casting taffy-pull silhouettes on the neatly-trimmed grass. Metis knew she would miss the empty cool of the summer – these hushed, shaded corridors and the solitude of the glassy lake. Once September approached the halls would fill with noise and laughter, breaking this fragile tranquility.

In the west the sun finished its slide behind the low mountains, painting the purple sky with dying fingers of red and gold, before vanishing. Metis sat, curled in upon herself, in an ornate windowseat, leaning her face against the cool panes of the high window. 

Torches guttered in their sconces on the wall, and she knew she should make her way back down to the dungeons, and to Tom, before someone happened by and realized she was here. She privately thought that the handful of staff members in the castle must have been turning a blind eye to her presence. There was simply no way they could not know. But, if that were so, she was glad for their indulgence. 

Silently, she slid down from the windowseat, pausing to retrieve a slim volume that lay face down on the cushion as she went. She slipped down the long corridor, passing through the golden circles of light cast by the flickering torches.

The path grew steadily darker as she went further down into the dungeons. She'd often wondered why Salazar Slytherin had chosen the dark and hidden places of the castle for his own. An uncomfortable voice in the back of her mind would whisper the answer on these occasions, a reason that she should not have known – and didn't wish to know. 

At the door to the Slytherin common room, Metis whispered the password – another piece of knowledge she was never intended to possess – and slipped inside. Tom was where she'd left him, on the low sofa before a fire burned nearly to embers, books strewn across the floor and hearth.

She stood in the doorway for a moment watching him, watching the red-gold glow of the fire reflect on the curves of his face, lined with concentration and oblivious to her presence. Metis leaned against the carved wood of the doorjamb, memorizing the line of his profile. Tom looked up and caught her eye. Something unspoken passed between them, something in his gaze powerful enough to make her catch her breath.

Tom beckoned to her from where he sat, surrounded by sheaves of delicate parchment, and she crossed over to him immediately. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up carelessly, his hands stained crimson with ink, and he closed his arms around her carefully, trying not to mark her clothing with it.

Metis looked down at his hands, clasped together in front of her. The red ink on his hands had sunk into every ridge and cranny of his skin, marking his knuckles, painting the clefts and v's and whorls of his palms and fingers – like war paint, like a marked man.

"I need your help," he said softly, gesturing toward a small, blank book that sat beside an unstoppered inkbottle. "I want part of you to be in this as well. How could I capture myself without you?"

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking over the books and parchment.

"Creating the future," he said, and she could hear the proud smile in his voice.

"With a book?" she asked, closing her eyes and breathing in his scent.

"Isn't the future usually made with a book? Or maybe that's the past." He held her more tightly, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"Don't talk in riddles," she replied, smiling a bit at the pun.

Tom tipped her face up and kissed her softly. "I thought that was why you loved me."

"Riddles? You're more than that, and we both know it."

"Yes, I suppose we do." He smiled. "But let's see if we can capture some of my riddles tonight, put them into these pages for safe-keeping."

"Safe from what?" 

"Or from whom."

"Or from whom," Metis agreed. "What secrets do you have hidden in here?" She let one hand drift to rest on the book, the other reached up to stroke his temple. Tom leaned in to her touch and sighed.

"You know everything about me. There are no riddles left that you don't have the answer to."

"But I still don't understand them all, Tom. I have the answers but I can't always make them fit."

"Yes, you can. You just aren't ready yet, are you." He turned her face toward his a bit more roughly than was necessary. "There are times, I confess, when I wonder whether you ever will be."

Metis opened her mouth to speak, to deny it, but something in Tom's eyes stopped her. Her words, she saw, would be meaningless for him tonight. They'd reached another crossroads, another trial of her loyalty – and loyalty meant action. She would not be able to speak to or soothe him tonight. So instead, she stretched out one hand and plucked the stained quill from his fingers. 

"Then show me," she said softly. "Whether I'm ready or not. When has that ever mattered?"

He laughed softly, his breath on the back of her neck. "When indeed?" He reached around her and pulled the insignificant-looking, leather-bound book between them.

"Tom? What is this? It looks like-"

"A diary?" He smiled, looking feline in the firelight. "And so it is – after a manner. But it is so very much more. It's my flesh, blood and bone. It's my spirit and yours – that's why I need you now. Everything depends on it."

"Everything?" she echoed, looking up into his eyes, gone dark and flat with some desire only marginally connected to her.

"Do you want to know how much this means? Do you want to know why it is desperate and vital that this be done? I can show you, if you'll believe."

"I've already told you that it doesn't matter if I'm ready to believe…"

He grabbed hold of the wrist of her hand holding the quill. "You may not be ready, but you must believe. This can't work if you don't. Be afraid – of the future, of fate, of me – but _believe_ what I have to tell you, or everything we hope to have is lost."

Shaken, Metis nodded mutely, gripping the quill so tightly in her fist it seemed likely to snap. 

Tom held her gaze with his eyes. "All right then." He snapped her wrist painfully sideways, causing her to drop the quill. He reached out and scooped a small, silver dagger from the low table with a deft hand. He twisted her hand around, exposing the soft, creased skin of her palm, and slashed the tiny blade across it. Metis bit back a gasp, realizing belatedly that the wound did not hurt. The little knife, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, left a clean, painless line of red through the center of her palm. Tom let go of her, turning his left hand palm-up next to hers. An identical cut divided his hand neatly into perfect halves.

They sat that way for a moment, staring at one another over their bloody hands. Then Tom grabbed her hand in his, pressing their palms together over the cheap, black book. "Believe in me," he whispered. "I can't do this without you. I need a willing soul for this magic, I need someone who _loves_ me. You love me, don't you?"

"Yes," Metis whispered, blinking back tears of pain.

He squeezed harder, their blood mingling and dribbling onto the starched, white pages of the diary…prick, prick, prick with needles and pins…red droplets on snow white and hair black as midnight, like childhood bedtime tales of glass coffins and embroidering queens. 

__

Three drops of blood and three wishes for my daughter, Metis thought. _Make her skin white as snow, her hair black as ebonwood and her lips red as blood…my blood, her father's blood… _Perhaps Tom would cut out her heart and put it in his jeweled box. Maybe he would eat it on a silver platter, and stay young and so, so beautiful, a wicked king with eternal youth and a magic mirror. Metis looked down at the red, red blood mingling with scarlet ink and sinking from sight. He bled her till her vision went green and shadowy. She swayed and thought she would faint, but Tom held her firmly with that one strong hand gripping hers, committing her to this irrevocably.

__

Ready or not, she thought giddily, before the green world turned to black and silver swirls.

When she came back to herself, Tom had her head cradled in his lap. The diary lay balanced precariously on his knee, its pages white and unmarked. She lifted her right hand and inspected it. Tom had healed the wound expertly and effortlessly, not a trace of it remained.

"If only," Tom breathed, stroking her hair. "If only I could find another you for the other me. He'll need her if the day ever comes… I wonder if fate would be so kind? To offer up another like you, willing to offer me your blood and soul. There must be another, there has to be, or the spell wouldn't have worked. I just hope he can find her."

"Tom, I don't understand. You said you'd show me what this was all about."

"I will," he said softly, helping her to sit up. "Come. Sit with me and write in the book. I'll show you everything." The world still spun dangerously as he pulled her against him, wrapping her cold, stiff fingers around the quill, helping her to dip it in the inkbottle. Sighing, she allowed him to turn her toward the diary, his arms strong around her, his right hand clasping hers as she held the quill. And they began to write.

***

"Have you gone and utterly lost your bloody mind?" 

The late afternoon sun slanted sideways through June's bedroom window. Hayden stood in front of the sheer, white curtains with an expression of complete shock on his face. The harsh August sun dappled shadows around his feet on the parquet floor as he began to pace.

"I asked," he said again, "if you've lost your mind. You _must_ have lost your mind, because there is no other explanation for your sudden desire for a walking tour of France."

"They have jeeps," June pointed out mildly. "Though I imagine there will be a certain amount of wal-"

"How can you bloody make jokes about this?" Hayden crossed away from the window, looking extremely agitated. "Listen, darling. I understand that we're all being noble now, and stepping in the save the poor, misguided Muggles from blowing themselves to all hell… but when they say 'do your part,' every normal person knows it's a lot of twaddle. And if you insist on being helpful, couldn't you be content with organizing an armament drive? Or donating silk stockings to make parachutes?"

"Hayden. Sit," she said firmly, pushing him into an overstuffed chair and heading to the bar to mix him a drink. She returned with a pair of stiff gin and tonics, and perched herself beside him on the arm of the chair.

"Drink." She shoved the glass at him. He took it almost unwillingly, scowling at her as she clinked their glasses carelessly together. He frowned, but tossed it back anyway, slamming the empty glass onto a nearby side table. He tossed the stub of his still-lit cigarette into the tumbler in a fit of pique, causing the residue of gin to sizzle and fizz.

"Feeling better?" June inquired blandly, getting up from the chair and beginning to pull clothes from her bureau.

A heartbeat later, Hayden pushed himself out of the chair. He glowered at her like a sulky little boy, scuffing his polished shoes against the floor and shoving his hands into his pockets. 

"You aren't going. You can't go. It's nothing less than insanity." Pulling his hands from his pockets, he followed her to the bed, where she calmly placed a stack of folded underthings into her bag. As she turned to the dressing table, Hayden took the clothes out again and tossed them onto the bed.

"_He's_ done this to you, hasn't he?"

"Who's done what to me, Hayden?" June asked, feeling a bit weary.

"He. Him. Mr. Goody-goody Professor Bloody Gryffindor." Hayden lit another cigarette and inhaled fiercely. "This is all his fault," he said, pointing at June with the lighted cigarette. "He's the reason you've taken leave of what's left of your senses."

"Hayden, really…"

"No." He shook his head and began to pace. "You used to be sensible – appropriately selfish with a nice, healthy sense of self-preservation. A totally reasonable and understandable creature. I never had to worry about you selflessly haring off to bandage war wounded, or try to feed starving tribesmen, or otherwise run about getting yourself killed… and then this great swot comes waltzing in with his ill-cut robes and so-called 'morals' and you go right off the deep. Like a bloody lemming."

"That is just about enough, Hayden."

"Do you even know what a Muggle war looks like, darling? Do you? I bloody do and it is not somewhere you want to be."

"Hayden…" she began, softening. "I know what you must think… What my going must be reminding you-"

"No." The word fell like lead between them - heavy, dark and flat. "No. I don't wish to talk about that." He tossed the cigarette stub half-angrily into June's potted aspidistra, and turned to face the window. Sighing, June turned in the other direction and headed toward the sitting room.

"June."

Something in Hayden's voice stopped her. She paused in the doorway and turned to face him. He crossed the room, stopping in front of her and laying his hands on her shoulders.

"Do you love him?"

June took a deep breath, entirely unsure how to answer.

"Don't lie to me," Hayden said, his handsome face serious. "I'll know. You can't lie to a liar, darling, they always know." He paused, looking intently at her face. "Are you in love with him?"

June closed her eyes. "I don't know."

When she opened her eyes again, Hayden was watching her with an expression of mild surprise. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I love him. I think I've always loved him. But I don't-"

"None of that now," Hayden said softly. "I shouldn't have asked. I've no right to ask."

He pulled her into a quick embrace then released her, looking down at her with something like real affection in his clear, hazel eyes.

"Come on. If you're determined to be suicidal, I might as well help you pack."

***

Life in Albania, Albus discovered, was very hard. He and Seward tried to do what they could for the ragtag band of rebels who'd adopted them. They would sneak off whenever they could, using magic to snare wild fowl, using their wands to divine edible mushrooms and roots hidden in the thick underbrush or beneath the hard, frosty ground. It was more food than the rebels had had in months, and they seemed the better for it. Petrit lost his haggard, glassy look, and Alba ceased nagging them about the supply drops.

This group, they'd learned, was a small, local cell of the Partisan resistance, committed to fighting not only the Germans, but the Albanian Nationalist forces who often allied themselves with the Nazis. The first firefight Albus ever witnessed left him shocked and speechless. These young men and women – children, really – had disabled a German panzer, handily captured and interrogated the crew and appropriated the Nazis' clothing and supplies for their own use. Albus never asked what ultimately happened to the German soldiers. Seward would only have scoffed, and Albus decided he was likely better off not knowing. 

The violence disturbed him, but he knew these people hadn't any other real option. He'd seen the swath the Nazi's cut through this countryside, leaving a wake of burned villages and hanged bodies. In the face of such brutality, he was amazed at the courage shown by those who dared to resist. He had never seen such devotion and grim determination in his own kind. He began to wonder if there was something fundamental lacking in wizardkind, or perhaps, he decided later, the complacent and prosperous witches and wizards of Britain had simply never been tested. Part of him wished for that testing, to force open the closed minds of his society, to give them all an appreciation for the peace and plenty they took so for granted. But mostly he knew better, knew that any such test, no matter how positive the result, would come at a price few should have to pay. 

Albus lay awake on his pallet in the chilly cavern, buttoning his borrowed Nazi field jacket up to his neck and trying to resist the temptation to use a warming charm or two. 

He sensed rather than saw Seward sit up on his own pallet. "Get ready. It's about time," he whispered. Albus was more than ready.

They crept out into one of the ragged corridors, their hands firmly on the wands both kept in convenient pockets. Fumbling their way in the dark, they crept stealthily through the pitch black, skirting the dimly lit areas where guards kept watch through the night. The two men had looked long and hard for an abandoned passage from which they could start their search for the supposed passage to Apollonia. Legend held that the ancient Greek magicians had constructed a network of underground roads to their city on the plain, and legend, when it came to the magical world, was usually correct.

Using advanced scouting spells, they'd made very good progress over the weeks, setting up a series of portkeys that covered short hops from cave to cave. Using this method, they could cover 20 kilometers and two mountain peaks in one night.

Three days ago, they'd stumbled across a flat, leveled wall in the natural rock. A few quick spells had revealed centuries old writing across the front. Albus hadn't been able to decipher it then, but now they were returning with several volumes of containing the runes and writing favored by Greek sorcerers in the Balkans circa the 10th century BC. Seward shook with barely-controlled mirth when Albus told him matter-of-factly that he had brought quite a few magical texts along. Pulling one of those texts out now, he flipped through the yellowed and care-worn pages until he found the correct incantation. He nodded to Seward, who pulled his wand from a pocket of his field jacket. Seward brought the wand up, flourishing it with more impatience than grace. Silver sparks spilled from the tip, settling across the blank wall to reveal the edges of a door. The cracks in the stone glowed pulsing silver as Seward moved away to give Albus room.

Stepping back a bit, Albus balanced the book on the open palm of one hand, stretching his other toward the now-revealed door.

"_Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen! Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen,_" he said loudly, clearly, feeling the familiar thrill of power thrum through him.

The ancient door swung easily open. Seward grinned up at him. "If the rest of it's this easy, we'll be damned lucky." He paused. "And if those books of yours keep coming in handy I'll take back what I said about them."

"But you didn't say anything about…" Albus began, following him through the door and into the darkened corridor beyond.

"Well," Seward said easily, in that half-serious tone that Albus had come to know so well, "at least not out loud."

Seward was first through the door as usual, one arm outstretched to keep Albus behind him. Albus sighed. As much as he liked the other man, the secret agent routine was starting to wear thin. Outside with Nazi soldiers and Nationalist spies lurking behind every tree, Albus understood Seward's rampant paranoia. But here in the caves, the only danger likely to befall them was of a magical variety – and that Albus could handle.

"Ow." Seward grunted and stumbled over something in the darkness. "Can't see a bloody thing…"

"Here," Albus said. "Perhaps this will help." He swished his wand through the half-light, conjuring a globe of cheerful yellow light.

In the flickering, hazy light from the globe, Seward grimaced, looking as though he wanted to say something. But instead, he nodded and moved on ahead. They crept carefully along the passage, moving ever downward, the globe bobbing along before them like an oversized firefly.

"Keep that thing under control," Seward said shortly. "If there's anyone down here, I'd rather we didn't alert them to our presence."

"I'd wager that entrance hasn't been-" Albus broke off at the look on Seward's face, and reigned in the globe with a sigh.

Their journey continued on for hours. Albus glancing occasionally at his watch in the meager light, realized that dawn was fast approaching the world above them. But still the trail continued, down into the bowels of the mountain. Albus began to worry that the path had led them wrong, and that this wasn't the road to Apollonia after all. He walked on, lost in these doubtful thoughts for longer than he realized, before Seward stopped up short.

"Hey!" Seward called in a loud whisper. "Hey, come look at this."

Albus moved forward, the globe bobbing against the wall at Seward's side, and joined him in looking at a section of wall carved with archaic runes.

"Any idea what it says?" Seward asked. "Because if it's a sign saying 'Beware of Dragon' or 'Here be Hippogriffs,' I'd love to know before we go any further."

Albus stepped back, considering the passage carefully. "I think it's a poem, or a song. I can't be sure. The language is very old, a dead magical language, same as the writing on the door back there." He bit his lip and began to translate as best he could. 

_The world is grey, the mountains old,_

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls…

"Well, I wonder what that means," Albus mused, producing a quill and parchment and beginning to scribble notes. "There appears to be more of it on the far wall… You don't suppose it could refer to the legends of Mi-"

"Later," Seward said, firmly. "After we find Apollonia. Like I said, unless it says 'Death to all who enter here' I can't get too worked up."

Seward practically had to drag Albus away from the verse, but in the end he gave in. They moved on in silence, until at last the path began to angle upward. A breath of air from somewhere above stirred across them. Albus took a grateful breath and picked up his pace.

Albus kept alert as they went, watching for any more evidence of possible Ardan writing on the walls. So intent was he on this that he nearly slammed into Seward as he rounded a corner. 

Seward stood stock still in the middle of the path, staring ahead in disbelief. "What the-?"

The path stopped abruptly not ten feet from where they stood, flush against an imposing stone wall. A decorative entryway arced in the center of the wall, intricately carved with nesting serpents. Directly beneath, where the entrance itself should have been, the door was bricked in. Heavy squares of blackish-grey stone were laid in, mortared together with some kind of heavy tar, utterly blocking the way.

Without really thinking about it, Albus crossed the distance and began running his wand over the thick stones. He could find nothing, no runes, no handle, no openings of any kind…

"There has to be something here – a key, a spell…" He traced a hand along the grooves, where the stones fit together.

Seward joined him beside the door. "Did you ever think, maybe the instructions are carved on the other side?"

That idea had not occurred to Albus, but it made sense. He sighed, and said, "You could be right. But I'll keep looking. I can't imagine the Apollonians would have made it impossible for anyone to get in this way."

Seward raised an eyebrow, thinking, no doubt, that in his opinion it was entirely appropriate to keep people out. 

Albus continued to run his hands over the stones, wracking his brain for inspiration. What did he really know about Apollonia? Not much, beyond what he could find in history books, and those who had since explored the city's ruins hadn't had much to add. So much of the city's lore was still the province of legend – the sort of thing the house elves used to tell him in stories at bedtime… And then he remembered. It was a half-forgotten scrap of story he recalled from drowsy winter evenings, but the memory of it stood out as sharp and real as the sense-memory of eiderdown and warm milk.

__

Only a friend can enter the secret city, little one. Many may approach, by plain, by seas, by sky, but only a friend of the city may enter by the stone-wrought gate.

He laughed, causing Seward to look up at him oddly, and stepped back from the door. It was probably futile, but worth a shot.

"_Mellon,_" he said softly, reaching out to touch the stone again.

The rough-hewn bricks dissolved beneath his touch, vanishing like grey mist. Seward, leaning forward against the stone, nearly overbalanced, but caught himself. The two stepped gingerly through the door and found themselves on a wide ledge high above the plain.

Stretching out before them, green and white against the dawn, stood Apollonia.

***

June had been to France many times as a child. She remembered Paris only vaguely as a city filled with bright lights and unfamiliar scents. Her clearest memory was of sitting in a café on the Boulevard des Capucines with her father, and being allowed to drink coffee for the first time. 

That France – the sophisticated, genteel country that she recalled from childhood – no longer existed so far as she could see. It had been replaced by a scarred, shell-shocked landscape, and she shuddered to imagine what they would find once they reached Paris.

Not for the first time, she marveled that they'd made it this far. It seemed like an eternity ago that she'd been sitting beneath apple trees in Valognes, waiting impatiently for the military to decide it was safe enough for her to travel.

She'd been a little surprised at the Muggle attitude toward women – she'd always known the wizarding world had some strange, anachronistic ideas about gender equality, in some ways extremely progressive and in others very old-fashioned. But she'd assumed that the Muggles, with their technological achievements and love for science and logic, would have already overcome those out-dated ideas. She'd never been more wrong. The military officers were friendly, solicitous even, but kept her very firmly in her place the whole way across the Channel and during those weeks at the camp in Valognes.

Ostensibly she was reporting for the BBC and London _Daily Herald_, and nobody assumed differently. And so, she was treated just like any other female reporter – which was to say she was flirted with, told to stay put and then ignored for days at a time.

That behavior had gone on until she'd been on the verge of risking her cover and sending owls to the _Prophet_ and the Minister with pleas for help. Luckily, word had come down the day before that Allied troops were converging on Paris. In the elation that followed this news, a sympathetic PR officer had assigned June and her partner a jeep and driver, and warned them not to get killed.

As it was, she didn't anticipate encountering any other wizards before reaching Paris. Most of the wizarding volunteers indeed worked either as scouts or medical personnel. The scouts were far ahead, using their magically enhanced stealth and sight to clear a path for the forces converging on Paris. The mediwizards and witches were days behind them – caring for the wounded left from the liberation of Brittany.

And so today, they bounced along in an American army jeep, driven by a terminally cheerful private called Sullivan, who was every inch the middle American farm kid. Sullivan – who, they'd discovered over the course of the trip, had played football for the University of Nebraska before the War – was broad-shouldered and grinning, with hair the color of late-harvested straw and an infectious laugh. He could talk a blue streak, dodging land mines and abandoned German tanks with apparent unconcern.

"I can't wait to see Paris!" Sullivan continued in his affable voice. "No one I knew had ever been farther than Kansas City-MO before this business got started. Some good's got to come of it all, I suppose. I promised my mom I'd get my picture taken in front of the Eiffel Tower and send it to her…"

In the passenger seat, June listened politely, nodding at the appropriate places and making occasional inquiries after Sullivan's enormous family. In the back seat, Freddy Parker, a _Daily Prophet_ photographer and June's grudging partner, tried futilely to strap down their equipment, which kept sliding around every time they hit a rut in the road.

"You know, Freddy," June said, turning her head slightly so he could hear. "All the rope in the world won't protect your cameras if we run into real trouble."

Freddy leaned forward and whispered irritably, "You're right. I wouldn't _need_ rope if you'd let me put a freezing charm on the luggage."

"You know the regs. We've got it better than most, besides. Now, shush, before poor Sullivan hears you and I have to put a memory charm on him."

"I'd _like_ to put a silencing charm on him."

"Try it and I'll hex you."

"Oh, yes. Sorry, I forgot. Should I leave the two of you alone?"

"Oh, please do," June said, good-naturedly. "We can just drop you alongside the road with some of those nice German snipers."

"Oh, you're bloody funny, Lisbon. Bloody funny."

June was forming a witty retort to that when the road ahead of them suddenly exploded. The jeep swerved and they slammed headlong into a shallow ditch as a shower of earth and shrapnel rained overhead.

After an appropriate amount of time, they dared to raise their heads, scanning the road for any signs of further attack.

"You all right?" Sullivan asked, pulling his sidearm and glancing cautiously around them.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine," June replied. "Freddy?"

"Oh, _I'm_ all right, but my wide-angle lens isn't going pull through."

Sullivan jumped out of the driver's seat and eased a little way up the road, alert for trouble. After a few minutes he jogged back to them, swinging himself up to stand on the side of the jeep. "Looks like a couple of stray Germans found themselves an old land mine. I don't see anymore of them around. I'll just take a quick look at the jeep to be safe, and we'll get out of here."

Pausing, he grinned at June. "Don't you worry, Miss Lisbon. I'll get you to Paris all right." He leapt nimbly from the jeep and began to inspect the tires and axle.

"Golly gee whillickers, you're pretty, Miss Lisbon," Freddy muttered under his breath. "Maybe you'd go to the malt shop with me once we get to Paris… Do you think they malt shops in P-" June elbowed him sharply in the ribs as Sullivan swung his large bulk back into the jeep.

"No damage done," Sullivan grinned as he fired the engine back to life.

The rest of their trip was comparatively calm. Freddy groused good-naturedly about his camera lens, Sullivan burbled on about the joys of American football and June half-listened to them both, watching the maimed countryside limp by.

Then in mid-afternoon, as June was fighting a losing battle against sleep even jostled as she was by the rough ride, they cleared the rise of a hill, and Sullivan let out a low whistle.

"Well, will you look at that," he said. June sat up, and gazed down into the valley. There, beyond a long line of tanks, trucks and troop carriers, gleaming green and silver in the morning sun, was Paris.

"I think," Freddy said, gripping the back of her seat and leaning forward, "they're expecting us." June followed his gaze to the road below where a crowd had gathered around the vehicles. "That's quite a welcoming committee."

They trundled down into the valley, joining the queue headed into the city. On either side of the road, crowds gathered – singing, weeping, embracing crowds. The press of people on either side was staggering. They shouted for joy, tossing bouquets to the GI's and littering the ground before the convoy with flower petals thick as Palm Sunday. A pair of pretty teenage girls with flushed cheeks jumped onto the running board of their jeep and kissed both Sullivan and Freddy. Sullivan blushed scarlet. Freddy laughed aloud with the girls as they embraced June like a sister.

By the time they entered Paris itself, they were breathless and dizzy. Sullivan had such a broad grin plastered on his face that June feared he'd chip a tooth.

"This is it," he said, nodding to himself. "This is why."

June didn't ask what he meant, just nodded solemnly in agreement.

The streets of Paris were even more crowded – it was untold pandemonium, and it was wonderful. They made slow progress through the crowds, everyone wanted to stop and shake their hands, but eventually the jeep pulled up outside the Hotel Scribe, where the correspondents had been billeted. Freddy and Sullivan hauled the equipment into the already overflowing foyer, while June lugged the duffel bags.

"Thanks, Sullivan," she said, as the young man jumped back into the jeep. "Good luck."

"You, too, Miss Lisbon," he grinned. "And Freddy, of course."

"Of course." She winked and planted a kiss on the private's cheek.

He blushed and drove off into the throng that crowded the streets. June went back into the hotel, nodding at the doorman who gave her uniform a once-over before allowing her in. Once in the lobby, she looked around for Freddy, but was stopped by a thin-faced man who flashed an ID at her and drew her aside.

Surprisingly, the man wasn't in uniform, but was instead wearing an understated charcoal grey suit. "Miss Lisbon?" he inquired, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Gilbert Wynant from the Ministry of Magical Information. I'll be overseeing your broadcasts while you're in Paris."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Wynant," June said, a little surprised. "How is it that I rate my own personal censor?"

His thin, melancholy face stretched into what, for him, must have been a smile. "No special treatment. You're just the only one here."

"The only one? How is that-"

"None of the other WWN correspondents have made it through yet. For the moment, Miss Lisbon, you are the voice of Paris."

***

"All right. We've got you set up in here, if you'll follow me."

Dazedly, June followed Wynant down a dimly-lit corridor in the Paris WWN headquarters… former WWN headquarters, she reminded herself, listening once again to the deathly still that hung over the place like a shroud.

She'd barely had time for a quick shower and change out of her field gear, before Wynant had showed up at her door. On their way over from the Scribe, they'd been shot at twice by snipers. All June wanted now was a stiff drink followed by a long nap. She certainly didn't want to be following Gilbert Wynant through this ghost town of an office.

The headquarters seemed trapped in a kind of suspended animation. Half-drunk cups of coffee littered desks all but hidden beneath four years worth of dust. Sheets of copy lay discarded in the haste of evacuation. The WWN correspondents had made it out of Paris half a step ahead of the Nazis. There had been no warning, no contingency plan. No one, it seemed, had ever believed that Hitler would truly take Paris.

"Luckily, the Germans couldn't find this place," Wynant was saying. "I can't imagine the trouble we'd have been in for if they had."

"Indeed."

"I'm serious," he said. "People back home may not realize it, but Hitler is very interested in magic. There have been reports out of North Africa that German agents attempted a break-in at a Gringotts excavation site. The Ministry doesn't believe the Germans knew exactly what they'd got their hands on, but still, they knew _something_ was there-"

"Gil!" A youngish man in a shabby field jacket stuck his head out from one of the doors at the end of the corridor. "I'm all set. Get her in here."

"Coming, Ned," Wynant replied. "After you, Miss Lisbon." He caught the door and held it for her.

They entered the smaller of the buildings two studios. Ned, apparently, had gotten most of the equipment up and running, a familiar electronic hum filled the air. June blinked at the sound. After a month in the field, the noise seemed odd and out of place.

"Nice to meet you," Ned said, pumping her hand enthusiastically. "Come on over here and we'll do an equipment check before you go on."

"Go on?" June repeatedly slowly, turning to look at Wynant.

"Of course. Didn't I mention that?"

"No, you did not…" June began.

Wynant cut her off. "We have to go on tonight. The Ministry wants a report from Paris, and what the Ministry wants…"

"Mr. Wynant…"

"Call me Gilbert," he smiled, off-handedly.

"Gilbert. Look, Gilbert, I can't go on the air. I've been in Paris all of an hour. I don't have anything written. There's no possible-"

"The Ministry has faith in you. You're on in twenty minutes." He shoved a quill and parchment into her hands, and wandered off to brew coffee.

Ned fiddled with the various machinery, poking at dials and blinking lights with his wand, while June took a seat. She stared blankly at the parchment she held in one hand and the quill in the other. She was still staring when Wynant returned, precariously balancing three cups of steaming, black coffee.

June looked up as walked past. "What do they want? A news report? Or Murrow-style human interest?"

"Human interest. But not too human. Something to keep the morale up. You know, our brave wizards and witches at the front, helping to liberate the French people… nothing specific, though."

June sighed heavily and began to write furiously. After a few minutes, Ned sat down beside her, fishing a flask from inside his field jacket, and poured healthy shots of whiskey into each of their cups.

"Five minutes," he said with a wink.

June hastily gathered her scraps of parchment together and sat on the stool at the microphone. Wynant walked over, sipping at his coffee, and took a seat behind her.

"This is how it works," he began. "My bosses at the Ministry tell me the things we can't say. I tell you what you can say. Got it?" June nodded. "Now let me have a look at those notes."

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, she handed over the parchment for Wynant to look at.

"This looks all right," he said at length. "Just remember, no details about which military operations wizards are involved with, and nothing that could damage morale."

Ned began flipping switches. "Thirty seconds."

"Good luck." Wynant leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

June arranged her notes in front of her, took a deep breath and faced the microphone. Ned nodded at her, and the "On Air" sign flared to life beneath inches of grey dust.

"Good evening. This is June Lisbon for the Wizard Wireless Network. Church bells are ringing here in Paris tonight. People everywhere – young and old – are singing and celebrating in the streets and cafes. There are phonographs in every window, and dancing on the pavement of the boulevards, and embraces between strangers made brothers by this shared joy.

"It's hard not to be swept up in the excitement, the raw emotions of relief and celebration. For those of us who have come late to this war… we can never understand, truly, the things done and felt here tonight. We can never claim this remarkable piece of history as our own – it will always be theirs, the brave girls and the quiet men of Paris, who took their city back from the Germans before the Allied armies had to fire a shot. We who have stood quietly by and allowed these things for so l-" She was cut off by a flick from Wynant's wand.

"That's your first warning," he said blandly. "Please proceed a bit more carefully."

June nodded, and reached again for the microphone. "We who have not seen these things firsthand, can only imagine our actions in their places. We can only hope that we would prove so courageous, if tested.

"Some say that Paris is only a symbol – and they are right. Paris is a symbol, an important one to our cause… because it is our cause now, as I hope every witch and wizard listening tonight understands. But to the people of Paris, it also is more than a symbol – it's home. A home that has not belonged to them for four years, and one that they have now taken back. To rebuild. To start again." 

***

"Well," Seward said, looking around awestruck.

"Mm-hmm," Dumbledore replied.

"Well," Seward repeated, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'd venture a guess that this is it."

To the non-magical eye, Apollonia was a ruin of overgrown white marble and temples to half-remembered gods. But to those who could truly see it, Apollonia was a ghost city – an empty metropolis that could have been abandoned only yesterday if not for the scent of long ages that clung to its pristine marble steps. 

Historians were divided on the precise nature of the disaster that caused Apollonia to be abandoned millennia ago – some blamed a magical plague, others a massive wizard battle with the Gaulish witch clans that had terrorized Europe from the 1st century BC up through the reign of Arthur Pendragon. But still others claimed the city's wisemen and sorcerers attempted a curse against the witches, a curse so massive it rebounded on the entire city, wiping out every living thing but leaving the buildings unscathed.

Standing at the head of the long avenue at the city's center, Dumbledore and Seward considered where to start. Stretching away from them, glinting white in the early morning sun, was the Odeon and smaller library building. Next to the temple of Apollo an abandoned Muggle archeological dig was marked out incongruously with raw, white rope. Even those mundane items seemed protected against the ravages of time and weather in this valley.

"Well, where to?" Seward asked, turning to look at Dumbledore. The other man was staring around him, wonder in his eyes.

"I knew what to expect, but I wasn't prepared for how _real_ it all feels."

Seward managed not to roll his eyes. "That's great, Professor. We'll come back another time when 200,000 Nazi troops aren't just over that rise, and then you can dig to your heart's content. Right now, though, we need to find what we came for and get the bloody hell out."

"Of course, of course." Dumbledore smiled in that knowing way that completely undermined Seward's justifiable paranoia. Seward shook his head. All he wanted was to keep the both of them alive, and if he had to bully Dumbledore to do it, so be it. But the other man only smiled on these occasions and refused to be bullied.

__

I am getting soft, Seward thought testily.

"Come on then," Dumbledore said, tugging on Seward's sleeve as though _he'd_ been the one dawdling. 

Truth be told, Seward liked Dumbledore. It was hard not to. Anyone with that much enthusiasm for lost causes deserved some kind of respect. But, Seward admitted to himself, he'd like the Professor a whole lot better once they were safely back in England, and he didn't have to worry about one or both of them getting their asses shot off.

Dumbledore led them down the avenue to the impressive library building. It made sense to go looking for signs of Scoresby there. Hopefully the first time would be the charm for them. Seward was increasingly nervous about their presence here. So far the Germans had left most of the magical sites in Albania alone, but there was no denying Hitler's interest in the occult. Seward feared setting off some ancient magic that would alert the Nazi's to Apollonia's existence and bring the German troops down on their heads.

They walked across the city center and up the low, marble steps into the library, a high-ceilinged building faced by imposing columns. Seward made Dumbledore wait just inside the entrance as he scouted around inside. There wasn't much – just a main room with two smaller rooms leading off to the east and west. The east-most room was empty, so they moved quietly into the one to the west.

The room was filled with scroll after scroll of ancient incantations, incantations that would be extremely valuable if they could ever be taken outside the city's boundaries. Many wizards had tried in the late nineteenth century when Apollonia had been rediscovered, only to find that it was impossible. Anyone trying to leave the city with one of its treasures got about fifty paces before finding themselves empty-handed, and the scroll or gold or piece of statuary could be found resting peacefully in its original location. This was the largest reason why Apollonia had been abandoned a second time and left to frustrate the digging Muggles.

Dumbledore was scouring the low tables and peering up at the walls. Seward, not knowing quite what to do with himself, folded his arms across his chest, leaned carefully against one of the tables and watched.

Dumbledore, on his second circuit of the room, looked disappointed. "Well, I must say there isn't much here, is there? I thought surely… Wait now, this shouldn't be here. This isn't Greek architecture at all… Oh!"

"What do you mean it shouldn't be here?" Seward asked, easing forward carefully to determine if Dumbledore had found something dangerous.

"This section was added later," Dumbledore said, running his wand over the polished, white marble. "They've tried to camouflage it, make it appear as old as the rest, but you can still see it if you know what to look for."

"So what does that mean?

"Perhaps there's something here, behind the wall." Dumbledore stepped back, examining the frieze intently, tugging at his beard with an absent hand.

"If this were an adventure story, there would be a secret lever or something," Seward observed, leaning back against one of the thick, marble tables.

"Well," Dumbledore began, "I hardly think that-"

"What?" Seward asked, drawing his wand and spinning to face the far door, which Dumbledore was staring at distractedly. 

"Jack, you may just be right." He walked over to the entryway and stopped beside a statue of a man, carved from clean, white marble. "This isn't part of the original building either. It's much newer, but fashioned in the classic tradition. I wonder-" Dumbledore produced his wand and began casting several interrogative spells on the statue.

He looked up, grinning. "Just as I thought!" he said, and grabbed the statue by one outstretched hand.

The section of heavy wall came free, sliding easily to the side. Beyond it, a small, dusty alcove lay in shadow. Dumbledore walked over to it, conjuring his globe of light and peered around the small opening.

"This _is_ interesting," he began and Seward rushed to cut him off before he got sidetracked by some fascinating piece of obscure architecture.

"What do those mean?" Seward asked quickly, pointing at a dozen or so runes scattered haphazardly across the white marble.

"Oh," Dumbledore said, breaking from his reverie. "Let's see." He thumbed through one of the dog-eared books he'd insisted on lugging with them. "Well, this one," he traced the topmost figure with his free hand, "this is the symbol for 'light'… and this one to right is 'wisdom' or 'knowledge,' the one in the middle is 'justice,' and… Oh, my!"

"What? You find a way in to Scoresby's little hidey-hole?"

"No… No, Jack. This _is_ it. This is what we've been looking for."

***

*The chapter title "Everybody Comes to Rick's" was the original title of the play on which the movie _Casablanca_ is based… because, as we'll soon find out, our heroes will always have Paris. ^_- The details of Nazi atrocities in June's dream come from war correspondent Catherine Coyne's description of the torture chambers in the Gestapo headquarters at Issy. In her account, she writes, "It is like a movie set, and you tell yourself human beings cannot treat other human beings the way men and women were treated here…" Very apt words, especially right now. June's dream comes before the liberation of Paris, before the Allies were truly aware of the extent of Nazi cruelty, but what she is seeing is reality. Make of that what you will. Nancy Caldwell Sorel's _The Women Who Wrote the War_ provided much of the inspiration for this chapter – it's an astounding book and I recommend that everyone run out and find a copy right away. Gilbert Wynant is named after the son of a missing millionaire from Dashiell Hammett's _The Thin Man_. Most of the BLO (British Liaison Officers) aiding the Albanian resistance fighters were already well in place by 1944. The British continued to drop supplies, but not personnel, up through October of 1944, when the Germans were finally forced to pull out of Albania. So, in reality the British and American intelligence agents in this chapter probably wouldn't have been parachuting into Albania by this point. A little bit of creative license on my part. The underground passages and the Gate were borrowed from J.R.R. Tolkien and the Fellowship's passage through Moria - including the poem and the spells in Elvish (elven - whatever. Tolkien-ites may quibble with me if they choose ^_-).

Hey! Want an **"author alert"** for this story without having to pay for it? Sure, we all do. ^_- Click here (http://www.geocities.com/metis_dreamwalk/announcementlist.html) and sign up for the announcement list. It's not a discussion list (for those of you who fear such things). It's a private announcement list – the only email you get is a link whenever a new chapter is uploaded. Neat! Of course, if discussion's your thing, check out HP_Paradise (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/HP_Paradise). 

__

Strasser: What is your nationality?

Rick: (poker-faced) I'm a drunkard.

Renault: That makes Rick a citizen of the world.

(Unsure whether I should keep doing the big thanks section, but what the hey…) 

Thanks as always to… Parker, Heidi (Never fear! You'll be back to cause more trouble for Seward once our heroes return to London ^_^), nosilla, Julia, Alexandra (It's been awhile, but I'm still in awe of your review of DB6, what with all the Milton allusions and your scarily accurate reading of my mind. ^_-), Jana, Al (I haven't reviewed ToT or Snitch yet. *scrapes, grovels and makes obeisance* I banned myself from fic reading till I finished this chapter. But now that I'm done...), Ebony (Your comment about June as "Mrs. Claus" in your review of the last chapter inspired a whopper of a plot bunny for me. Thank you! ^_^), Eilynne (Glad I was able to coax you out of lurker-dom), AshlieK, Laurin, KariAnna, GeminiC, Fleurelissa, minx, AmandaMancini, Melodylemming (Yes, I have read _Cold Comfort_ - and I'm pretty sure _The Higher Common Sense_ does exist but I've never tracked it down and read it), Dixie Malfoy (Wow. The ~dreamwalk~ site really made that much of an impression? Cool. Thanks so much for the feedback on the site and on the fic!), RJ Anderson (Smitten? With Albus? Hee. He has that affect, doesn't he?), Colin, delentye ("Seward's folly"? Hee!), elel88, IckleRonniekins, DaZLinDZ, Quare Bungle Rye, Anna.

Anita Skeeter (Oh, so you're a Percy fan. *grins* He'll show up eventually in this series. Ooo, fun.), Laetitia Prism (Something seemed a little off about Ch. 6? Hmm. I may have to email you and pick your brain... ^_^), Hillary Bean (I can solemnly promise that whatever evil Tom does through the course of _Dreamwalk_ universe, there will be no floating sheep. *shudders*), Wicked_Lady, Jedi Boadicea (I was rather proud of the Museum. I'm so glad you liked it.), Sheryll, Aira (Yes, Dumbledore in canon is 150. Which means he would have been around 90-100 during the forties. But when I started DB back in September of 2000, we didn't know that yet. Certain characters' ages in this universe won't fit in to what we've learned about canon, unfortunately.), Lady Malfoy (High praise, indeed! Thank you.), KNA, Lotti, Pottermaniac, Krystal, CLS (June is a bit like Nora, isn't she? I'm a big Hammett fan. As far as Albus' patrician background - well, every other fic (well, the two or three that exist...) I've ever read about him has him living in a shack in the mountains surrounded by goats. ^_^ I wanted to do something different), SisterSyn, Winterstorms, darker child and anyone else I may have left out.


	9. Twilight Time

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER EIGHT

Summary: Grindelwald finally makes an appearance (of sorts), Tom learns something he'd rather not share, Albus takes a badly timed nap, Hayden impersonates an officer and things generally begin to fall apart.

Thanks, as always, to Flourish and Karina for beta reading.

CHAPTER EIGHT -- TWILIGHT TIME

They, asked me how I knew,  
My true love was true,  
I of course replied, something here inside,   
Cannot be denied.

They, said some day you'll find,   
All who love are blind,  
When your heart's on fire, you must realize,   
Smoke gets in your eyes.

(_smoke gets in your eyes_ jerome kerns/otto harbach, 1933)

The summer died, and Metis began to dream in white.

Snow and smoke and clouds and cotton. She dreamt white sand and ginger blossoms, starlight and ice. She dreamt linen and afternoons, lace and lilies of the valley, poplin and face powder. She dreamt bone china and cream. She dreamt candlewax and writing paper. Silk and raw wool, starch and steam, pearls and their mothers. She dreamt poppies, their red faces crossed with white, and hard sap in white clay cups.

She dreamt, finally, of angels.

Not of cherubs, but of angels, tall and pale and terrible. With Old Testament wings and stern faces. She dreamt them in robes of white -- white, and every color of every rainbow that ever was. They wore crowns of flowers and silver cords and they did not see her.

Metis saw them. Stigmata and scars, pain where there should have been perfection. There was weeping and it turned the dream silver, then blue. She liked it better when it had been white. Because the blue was familiar, the scent before a rainstorm.

The dream was blue and the blue was cold. Metis shivered and wanted to wake up. The angels were gone, took with them their white wings and silver tears, left only the blue and a woman with a familiar voice. She held a cracked silver shield in one hand and willow switches in the other. The mark of Cain was on her and she was bound, irrevocably, held with heavy chains, to someone Metis could not see. 

But she saw Metis, saw her, and spoke, "I think it's about time you and I had a talk. Don't you?"

***

From the outside it looked simply like another alley, narrow and dank, lined with grimy cobbled stones and slick puddles of rainwater. In fact, it was just like any other alley -- or it would have been, if not for the presence of a door. The door, set into the alley's north wall, was low and rounded, made of wood too bright, too rich to belong here in the slums of the city. Behind it, for those who were unlucky enough to find it, lay magic. Behind it lay dreams and power. Behind the door, dark, low-ceilinged chambers reeked of blood and opium. Bones and runes rattled against the bare floor, carelessly divining the secrets that lay hidden behind blue smoke.

A small, swarthy man picked his way through the main room, weaving among the reclining sleepers -- blank-eyed children who lay in tangles of lithe limbs against rich, wool rugs, who lay on low benches and tumbled over silk pillows. The magic they made behind those closed and rolling eyes hung as thick on the air as the smoke. At the center of the dreamers was the Master of them all. He reclined on a high-backed chair, lacquered in the colors of blood and dragons. His arms were splayed lazily, a glass pipe held carelessly in one long, pale hand. Behind his head, an oil lamp guttered and shied, lighting him from behind, painting a Renaissance halo of gold atop his head. He looked up as the other man approached.

"Master, the sentries at the city have sent word. The two British wizards have been there. They've found the keystones."

"Yes, I suppose they would have."

The man genuflected, bowing his head toward the fringed rugs scattered across the polished mahogany floor. "Shall I have the situation dealt with?"

"No, no. Let them go."

"But they have- They know…"

"And that is how it should be. I may have my own ends, but that does not mean I wish the other players to remain ignorant."

"But…"

"You do not understand, is that it? It is better that you do not." He leaned closer. "You must trust me. We shall turn the tide of time. The future will be ours, and the past will not need ever intrude upon us again. But there are rules. Rules that must be obeyed." He nodded, half to himself. "Let the Englishmen go. None of our number shall harm them."

"Yes. Of course." 

"Now about that other matter?"

"The boy, Master? It is being taken care of as we speak."

***

Tom woke early, the first taste of grey winter on the air as he made his way across the empty lawn. He walked down past the gamekeeper's cottage just as the sun rose. The lawn was quiet and he was almost to the edge of the forest when he heard someone laughing.

A little girl in a black cloak sat on an old tree stump, watching him. She looked about twelve or thirteen, dark-haired and too pale. She closed her eyes when he stopped, facing her, and her thick, coarse eyelashes were dark against her white skin.

"What are you doing down here?" Tom asked sharply, startled into anger. "I'll have to-"

"Do you really think I'm one of them? Those silly, stupid children who have to do what you say?" The girl opened her heavy-lidded eyes and spoke in heavily accented English. Tom had heard the accent before, in a rose garden on New Year's Eve.

"What are you doing here?" he said, pulling out his wand.

"Now, there's not a need for that, is there?" She stood, smiling, and crossed over to him. When she stood close, she didn't even come up to his shoulder. "We warned you, you know. We warned you what would happen. You didn't listen to us, did you?"

"Who are you people?"

"Don't you know?" She seemed amused. "And here they thought you were dangerous." 

__

I'll show you how dangerous I am, Tom thought, but bit the words back.

"You were warned for your own good." The girl smiled. "It was for _her_ own good. But I think you knew that, didn't you? I think you know that, really, deep down. I knew you wouldn't listen."

That made Tom angry. The anger was familiar, calming, something he could hold on to. "How do you know anything about me?" he snapped. "I don't know who you people are, or what you're playing at…"

The girl just laughed again, making Tom even more furious.

"My master bid you have this." She pressed a tiny book, black with gold-edged pages into his hands. Tom glanced at it -- it was very old.

"Your master?" he said at last. "You're only a child."

"So are you," she replied, apparently ignoring that he was a good four years older than she. "Do you think because we're children, that we aren't dangerous? That we can't do anything?" She leaned in close to him and whispered, "I've seen everything about you. I've seen you live and die and live again. What do you think about that, Tom Riddle? Am I such a worthless child now?"

Her words turned his blood to ice. _Live and die and live again._ Could she possibly know? And if she knew, who else did?

"Aren't you going to try and kill me?" he asked coolly, recovering some of his composure. "The last one tried to kill me."

"Did he? That is unfortunate," she said, and was gone.

Tom went back inside the castle, heading straight for the library. He found a secluded corner and sat there all morning. No one disturbed him. Not even Metis came looking for him. The book sat on his knee, unopened. He knew he ought to throw it away or check it for curses. No matter what, he knew he shouldn't keep it. No matter what, he knew he shouldn't open it.

After a while, though, he opened the book, the pages brittle under his fingers, and began to read.

***

In October, the Allies pushed the Germans out of Albania and Albus and Seward were finally able to come out of hiding. An Albania crawling with Allied soldiers, however, was almost as dangerous in its own way for two wizards as the Nazis had been.

"Who did you say you were again?" a harried American officer asked Seward for the fourth time that day.

"I've told you -- my name is Jack Seward…"

"And you're from British intelligence?" 

"Yes."

"Both of you?" He looked pointedly at Dumbledore, who was clearly trying to remember which end of his gun was the dangerous one.

"Yeah, well. He's new," Seward snapped.

"I'll say."

"Look," Seward said, steering the American away from Dumbledore and speaking softly. "You're right. He isn't standard material. The guy's a professor, some genius-type… you know the kind. He's a specialist, of a very particular sort, and the less you ask about our mission, the better. Understand, old chap?"

The American officer, likely accustomed to four years of receiving similar answers to his questions, shrugged and didn't ask again.

Whether the Americans actually bought Seward's bluff was debatable. But a harried courier came through that morning with orders that the two men were to be shipped out on the next available troop transport headed in the general direction of England.

The army sent them to Italy.

Two weeks later they sat, backs up against the curve of a Quonset hut and feet resting on their duffels, at a desolate strip of dirt and rocks that the Americans insisted on calling an airfield.

"So," Seward began, "after all this, we're finally going home."

Dumbledore nodded agreement, looking tired.

"So, what are we going to do when we get back?" This was a question that had been plaguing Seward ever since they'd finished their search at Apollonia two months ago.

The lines on Dumbledore's face creased further with worry. "I haven't quite figured that out yet. Knowing what we know…"

"What _do_ we know?" Seward asked. "I'm still a little fuzzy on that."

"We know what Scoresby found, for one thing."

"Do we?" Seward asked, a bit weakly.

"He found Slytherin's keystones -- those runes in Apollonia. The ones at the center were Light, Knowledge, Justice and Resurrection. Now, Scoresby and Dent thought that the keystones referred to four events that had to take place before the Heir of Slytherin could reveal himself. Now if _I'm_ right, that's already happened-"

"_If_ you're right," Seward said, unconvinced. "Do you think you know who it is then?"

Dumbledore frowned. "No. No, I don't think that I do." He paused a moment, then said, "If we can just figure out what those four events are, what person they all have in common…"

"And all we've got for clues are four words? They could mean anything!" Seward picked up a handful of pebbles and chucked them at the runway. He could hear the whine of an approaching plane and hoped against hope that, this time, it was their transport.

"It will be difficult. But I think we can do it. We've got more than just those words, remember. The other runes-"

"But you said you didn't know what those meant." Seward was getting annoyed. He was exhausted, dusty and thirsty. They'd been through the ringer and back, and it was starting to look as though it had all been for nothing.

"Well, I don't now, but I will. It will simply take some time."

Seward wished he could be as sure, but didn't say so. The plane he'd heard was circling back around, descending quickly toward the runway.

"For now, though," Dumbledore said seriously, as the plane touched down, "for now I think we have to keep this quiet."

***

Winter came, and Metis dreamt of mirrors.

She slept alone, in her own bed. Tom left her, and would not give her a reason, would not say why. He wouldn't even speak to her. He kept his distance from her; he had since November. He had left her on the Feast of All Saints and come back with a book, and when he'd returned he wouldn't even look at her. She was bereft without him. So she huddled in her bed, huddled beneath blue velvet and blue brocade, and dreamt of mirrors and reflections, of silver and green.

Sometimes the dreams didn't leave her during the day. It was as though she was in two worlds at once -- the world around her, the real one, where she could touch and feel and hear when her friends called her name. And the other-world, where the sky was green and mirrors were quicksilver and rain ran black.

Her friends were worried, she could see. They, of course, thought it was Tom. Perhaps they were right; Metis didn't know. They petted her and spoke softly to her and brought her sweets. They brushed her hair and told her that she was too good, too smart, too pretty for Tom Riddle. They told her she was better off without him, that he had no right to treat her this way.

They didn't know she was drowning without him.

She was drowning in quicksilver, in the other world that roared in her ears and shattered glass in her head. It took all her concentration to keep it from swallowing her whole. She needed Tom, she needed him or she would die. She saw him in the corridors, at meals. She tried not to see, tried not to know when he was near, but she couldn't help herself. It was as though she could feel his every breath, his every heartbeat even when he was this far from her. Even when he had cast her away.

She had been his for four years. Without him she didn't know herself, she didn't even recognize her own skin. He had gone, and he still wouldn't tell her why. Not that she would have asked him, not that she could have.

One Saturday when the dawn broke cold and clear, they went into town. Metis walked with her friends, their breath ghosting white. The trees above them stretched grey arms overhead, reaching for them. The sky was slate, the ground frosted silver and the road ran ahead of them like a ribbon of charcoal. There wasn't any green, not as far as she could see. Not in this world. The green had died with autumn, brought winter to her and only left shadow and mist.

Tom walked ahead, in the center of a group, head above the crowd as always. He walked on and didn't see her, didn't say a word.

And she was falling.

She fell onto leaves, grey and brown and smelling of decay. Hands clutched at her, pulled her upright, but all Metis could see was her dream. The mirrors shattered and left only the green and a man with a familiar face. He held a glowing ball of poisonous, swamp-gas flame in one hand and branches torn ragged from the Tree of Knowledge in the other. He was also bound -- green and silver-scaled serpents twined around arms, wrists, legs.

He saw her and he did not speak.

***

Before Italy, Albus had never ridden in a Muggle airplane. It did not turn out to be an experience he wanted to repeat. 

The plane hit another bump and Albus grabbed hold tightly to a canvas strap hanging from the ceiling. Seward stood in the middle of the cabin, swaying almost drunkenly with each movement of the plane, trying for the hundredth time to get a straight answer from the Americans about where they were headed after landing in France.

"How in the bloody hell are we meant to get back to London?" Seward was shouting at a young officer. The kid looked about twenty and entirely out of his league. "It is imperative that we get back to report in!"

The officer seemed to shrink further down in his seat. "Our orders… look here, our orders were to get you to Paris. After that, you're on your own. Perhaps the British liaison in Paris will be able to…"

Albus stopped listening. He was beyond caring what happened, so long as he could find a place in Paris to lie down and have a decent sleep. He wouldn't say no to a shower and a hot meal either.

Seward flung himself down on the bench seat next to Dumbledore. "Well, this is just brilliant. Once we get to France, apparently, we're on our own. Our American friends here can't be arsed to put us in contact with anyone who might be able to help us."

"Well, how could they, really?" Albus asked reasonably. "Considering that there isn't much we can tell them about what we were doing in Albania."

Seward gave him a look that could have melted through the hull of the plane, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes as the transport began to descend.

When they touched down, the young officer Seward had read out came over tentatively. "Uh, gentlemen?"

"Yeah, yeah," Seward said irritably, standing up and grabbing his pack.

"Um… here," the officer continued, offering a folded square of paper to Albus rather than Seward. "Here's contact information for the liaison office and the British consulate here in Paris. Everything's a little messed around right now, but they ought to know what to do with you."

Albus thanked the man and headed out the hatchway and down the ladder. Wearily, he focused on the back of Seward's head, careful not to lose sight of the other man as they were shuffled onto the airfield where a group of Muggle military officers and reporters waited. The concrete was slick with rain and rainbow spills of fuel, the whine of circling planes made him dizzy. He was bone-tired, bruised and half-deafened from days of flying in transport planes. He stumbled, dropping his duffel. He stopped to pick it up -- worried that he might not be able to stand back up again if he knelt down -- when there was a soft cry and suddenly one of the female war correspondents broke away from the others and was in his arms before he could recover.

Stunned, Albus tried to pull away. "Miss… er, I mean, Lieutenant?"

"Albus!" a familiar voice said against his shoulder. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you."

"June?"

She tipped her face up and smiled at him, looking overjoyed and a bit stunned. Albus gawked, trying to take in her Muggle uniform.

"What have you… why are you here?"

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she said, looking slightly giddy. "That makes for a fine homecoming," she said, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him hard. He was dimly aware of laughter from the other reporters and the click of a shutter.

"I should have known," a male voice said, then returned to taking pictures.

"Well," Albus said, when he'd caught his breath. "Well…"

"Yeah," said a passing officer, with a wink. "I know the feeling."

***

Seward had to admit it -- he was impressed.

Dumbledore's better half was long-legged and blonde, with an aristocratic face and a no-nonsense attitude. June Lisbon shook his hand in greeting and didn't even blink when Dumbledore mentioned which Ministry department Seward worked for. She remained unfazed as she and her partner, Parker, gave an abbreviated account of their trip to Paris, land mines, snipers and all.

The lady just plain had guts. Seward liked her immediately.

He noticed, though, that Dumbledore didn't tell her the whole truth about what they'd found in Albania. He wondered if this was because Parker was there, or perhaps because he didn't want her to know. Seward would have to ask him about it later. For now, they had more pressing problems. Like how to get to London.

"They said we ought to go see the Ministry liaison, didn't they?" Dumbledore suggested with the optimism of someone who'd had only limited contact with government bureaucracy.

"Only we _can't_ go see the liaison, Professor, seeing as we don't actually work for the Ministry. Not that one anyway. We'll be lucky if we're only shot as spies!"

"Ah." Dumbledore seemed to consider that for a moment, in that distracted way of his. "I suppose something will come along then, won't it?"

Seward buried his face in his hands.

June stifled a laugh, while Parker stepped between them and held up a hand. "Hey -- Mr. and Mrs. Bickerson?"

"Come on, you two," June said, taking Dumbledore's arm. "We've got room at the hotel for you. Gil Wynant from the WWN can put you in touch with our Ministry Information Office here in Paris." She grinned. "Tomorrow. How about right now we get you some showers, then maybe dinner?"

"And a stiff drink," Seward agreed.

They headed back to the Hotel Scribe, the place overflowing with correspondents from just about everywhere. June deposited them all in Parker's room and breezed out with a wave to change for dinner.

"You chaps can fight over the shower." Parker dropped heavily into an armchair and poured himself a scotch.

"You go on ahead, Jack." Dumbledore looked about dead on his feet. He sank onto the bed and closed his eyes.

"All right. I won't be long."

Seward, showered and changed, left the others to get ready and went downstairs to the lobby trying not to think. A treacherous thing, his memory. All evening it had been trying to trick him into thinking, thinking about Hart and Heidi. Something about being here like this, with Dumbledore and his June, with a wise-cracking guy like Freddy Parker… it reminded him of things. Other times, better ones. About that time ten -- or was it twelve now? -- years ago in Prague. Heidi's first assignment and Seward had only been a year or two riper than green himself. Hart laughed at them both, took every chance he could to wind them up. Hart -- the big, tough guy, completely imperturbable, who'd always had an off-color joke to make Heidi roll her eyes and laugh. And at night when he didn't think anyone would notice, he'd written love letters to his girl back home. Heidi'd always said, when Hart was out of earshot, that she needed to find a guy like that.

Funny the way things worked out.

He walked outside, stood on the steps of the hotel. Across the way, a sign hung over a tiny café, proclaiming that it sold the best brioche in the city. Seward tried to concentrate on that, maybe he'd go get some in the morning and put that claim to the test.

"Smoke?" a voice asked at his elbow. June was standing on the step below him, looking up.

"Sure. Thanks." He took two from her and lit them both, handing one back.

"So, you and Dumbledore, eh?" Seward said offhandedly. "Funny, you don't seem like his type."

She inhaled and relaxed against the stone wall, the street lamp painting gold splashes of light across her black dress and coat.

"I'm not entirely sure I am."

"But you love him."

"He's rather loveable," she said, laughter in her voice. But Seward noticed she avoided answering the question.

"What is it?" she asked after a moment, and he realized he'd been staring. But the resemblance to Heidi really was there. Not in her appearance but her manner, it wasn't just his wishful imagination.

"Ah, it's nothing. You just… remind a bit of someone." He looked up at the café sign again. "At least, the way she used to be."

"What happened?"

"Same thing that happened to everyone." He gestured around at the street in front of them. "This, the war. The whole goddamned world going crazy."

June nodded sympathetically. "But someday, maybe, things will go back to the way they were before."

Seward snorted. "You don't believe that, and neither do I."

"No, I don't suppose I do." Then, "You're a good man, Jack. I can see why Albus admires you so much."

Seward didn't know how to respond to that. After a few moments he simply said, "Yeah, well. The Professor's not so bad himself most of the time."

"There you are!" Dumbledore called, making his way down the hotel's front steps with Freddy Parker trailing behind. Dumbledore looked more animated than Seward had seen the man in weeks. He turned and looked down at June. She was smiling at Dumbledore, an amused and familiar expression on her face. She loved the guy, all right, Seward thought, even if she wouldn't say it out loud.

"Let's go." Parker rubbed his hands together, a broad grin on his face. "I'm half-starved."

"Think about it," Seward said, clapping a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder as the four of them took to the street. "A meal at a table, with utensils and everything."

"Proper glasses and napkins, too." Dumbledore grinned back.

The sun was setting as they rounded the corner onto a wide avenue, and the city blazed into life before them. After the thick, absolute darknesses of nights in the Balkans, the lights took Seward's breath. He brought a hand up to shield his eyes and let out a low whistle.

Dumbledore stood in the street, looking vaguely dazzled. June grinned at him and took his hand. "Welcome to Paris."

***

The city was recovering from years of occupation and so Paris was still not the magnificent and elegant place June remembered from childhood, but it would only be a matter of time. The restaurants served what food and wine they could, the nightclubs served cocktails, and the GIs jitterbugged to Benny Goodman just like they had back home.

After dinner they went for drinks at a loud and smoky club called _La Belle Aurore_. Jack flirted with a gaggle of pretty, French girls while Freddy bought the drinks. June danced with half a dozen GIs before she could make her escape from the dance floor.

"Miss Lisbon!" someone cried, just as she untangled herself and headed back to the table. "Miss Lisbon, I can't believe it!"

"Sullivan?" she said. "Private Sullivan? It _is _you."

The young army driver who'd brought them into Paris in his jeep stumbled over. 

"It's so good to see you! You're pretty as ever!" he said, favoring her with a slightly sloppy grin.

"It's good to see you too, Sullivan." She smiled at him. She really did like the kid, and was relieved to see him all right.

"I'd ask you to dance, but seeing as how you're an officer…"

"In name only," she grinned. "And I appreciate the offer."

June made her way back to the table where Albus was waiting. He looked about ready to fall into his drink. They really ought to go back. She looked over at Jack and Freddy, still surrounded by girls. They'd be just fine.

"You haven't exactly been lonely while I was gone, have you?" Albus observed dryly as she sat down. "You seem to have made more than your share of friends." He looked pointedly in Sullivan's direction.

"Albus," June said patiently. "You're tired, you're a bit drunk, and you're seeing things that aren't there. These boys like to flirt, true. They're lonely and scared and far away from home. But that's it."

"That's what you think," he said, exhaustion and liquor making the words come out slowly and slightly unsteadily. "You don't see it. I don't think you want to see it. You're so beautiful, you… They'd be fools not to-"

"Albus," she said, cutting him off abruptly. "Take me home."

He blinked. "What-"

She leaned over, hooking one arm around his neck and kissing him once, very slowly. "Take me home."

He had their coats and was at the door before she finished saying goodnight to Freddy and Jack.

"Now, don't wait up for us or anything," Freddy called after her, grinning.

It was well past midnight and the streets were still crowded. When they reached the street corner, Albus pulled her close under the light of a street lamp and kissed her. He kissed her in the lobby of the hotel, in the lift and at her door. She fumbled with the handle and they lurched inside. Albus kicked the door shut with a bang, and they both began to laugh.

"Well, would you look at us?" June said, still grinning.

"I've missed you." Albus slid her coat from her shoulders.

"Obviously." She pulled away from him, leaving him to throw off his own coat and sit down on the bed. "Would you like a drink?"

"In a minute." He caught her hand and pulled her down next to him.

"Are you all right?" she asked, bringing one hand up to touch his face.

"Yes. I'm sorry about before, I was just-"

"Tired. Wrung out. Maybe a little angry with me." June smiled.

He started to protest, then shook his head. "Yes, maybe I've been a little angry with you."

She leaned in and kissed him again, softly this time. He broke the kiss, but held her there, one hand heavy on her neck. 

"I just feel so much more than you do, I think. I was angry with you for that. I wanted you to feel the same way."

"I know. I've just needed time." She pulled back, letting one hand drop to his knee. He covered her hand with his. "Now, how about that drink?"

He nodded, leaning back against the huge mound of pillows on her bed. June grabbed a bottle of brandy from the dressing table and went into the bathroom to fetch two glasses.

"Were you planning on telling me about Albania?" she asked over her shoulder. He murmured something indistinct in response. It turned out there were no clean glasses, so she had to wash a pair out in the tiny bathroom sink.

"Albus, I was thinking maybe…" She broke off, leaving the brandy half-poured, and poked her head back into the too-quiet room. "Albus?" Soft snores greeted her from the direction of the bed. Shaking her head, she grabbed one tumbler of brandy and crossed over to sit beside him.

"You know," she said softly, toasting him with the glass. "In the last four months we've seen each other exactly twice, and both times you've fallen asleep on me. A girl could start to imagine things."

He responded by turning over in his sleep, flinging one arm across her legs. She scooted in a little closer, smoothing his hair with her free hand. "I suppose, though, it could be worse." She kicked off her shoes and leaned back against the headboard, sipping her drink until the last of the brandy disappeared and she began to doze off herself.

A sharp knock on the door jerked her awake. Albus was still deeply asleep beside her, oblivious to the noise. She disentangled herself, careful not to wake him, and padded over to open the door.

"Freddy!" 

"Hey, Lisbon." Freddy ran a nervous hand through his short, spiky hair. "Not to interrupt or anything."

"Trust me, Freddy, there's nothing to interrupt."

"Sure. If that's how you want to play it…" He handed her a folded square of official letterhead. "Either way, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings."

She unfolded the letter, her eyes widening slightly as she read. "Tomorrow? They must be joking. All these months in Paris and… _tomorrow_?"

"Sorry, kid. It looks like we're all moving out. On the bright side, at least maybe it means we've got the Germans on the run. Besides, I hear Belgium is nice this time of year. We can take some pretty pictures, have a nice winter stroll through the mountains." Freddy jerked a thumb back toward his own room. "I'm gonna get packing. We won't take off till mid-morning, so you've got some time."

"All right, Freddy," she said, and shut the door as he left.

Turning back to the dimly lit room, she stood for a moment unsure what to do. Finally, she went over to the bathroom and changed into a pair of clean pajamas. Snapping off the light, she walked over to the bed, curling up behind Albus. He lay on his side, his hands tucked beneath his chin, his breathing even and steady. She'd let him sleep for a few more hours and wake him up to tell him before she left.

***

Something was very, very wrong with Tom, but Metis knew better than to speak it.

The wrongness crept in like a thief to steal and stayed to whisper in her ear. Lover-like, and she welcomed it because it filled the blackness. It filled the ice and wind-howled evenings, kept her company through the long winter middle-nights. She held it about her like a blanket, warm and soft and gilt brocade that matched the blue of her bed (of her eyes).

This night, a train whistle screamed through the evening dark. The last train out, the last train away from here. But Metis sat fireside wrapped in everything wrong, and warm and safe besides.

Tom wasn't so far from her yet. She could go to him and put her hands on his and try to make things right, if only he would let her. But she didn't. Instead she sat by candlelight picking hollyberries from the mantle garland and tossing them into the flame. They popped and sizzled, drops of blood that skittered and flirted with the fire. The fire danced with her in turn, beckoned and welcomed. She had a memory of other light, other fire, and wished she'd lost herself in it then.

She wanted fire, so of course what called to her then was ice. Ice from below her window, pale and reflecting the surface of the moon, slick beneath the winter stars. She dreamt of ice, crystals and snowflakes. She dreamt of coffins made of glass and the blue-lipped virgins who slept inside. She dreamt of sleep and death and mid-winter and never woke to a kiss.

The train's whistle cried again, even though it should have been too far to hear it, and she went to the window. A shadow danced across the lake, shivered in and out in the cold light. Part of her knew what it was, but she held the knowing captive, silenced it, grabbed her heavy cloak and went down to look.

The winter had been mild, almost Christmas and there had been no snow. The lake froze half-heartedly, the surface deceptively smooth. Metis stood beside it and looked for shadows. 

One found her instead.

"Everyone ends up here sooner or later," Tom said, and she jumped to face him. He stood close to the lake, watching her with a curious expression on his face. "I thought you'd have tried to come to me before this," he said mildly, and stepped out onto the ice.

"What are you- Tom!"

"Does that frighten you? I can't imagine it would. I won't fall through, you know. Do you really think I could?" He slid graceful across the ice, his slick-soled shoes scraping crystals and sparks as he went. He put his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky, clear and picked with stars. Cold and hard and beautiful, like his face when he looked at her.

"Come here," he said, still watching the stars. Metis simply stood on the bank and stared at him.

"Won't you?" He reached for her, hands pale as death under the moon. "I think you will. I don't think you know to be afraid."

"I know more than you think," she replied, and then wondered why she'd said that.

"Do you?" He was laughing at her, just a little. "Do you know, Metis? How could you, when all you've ever done is hide from knowing? That's why I tried to let you go. I tried, but I can't." He clenched his hands into fists. "You may know something, you may feel that something is coming, but do you know what? Do you know why? Of course not. And the fault of it is all yours."

He continued his spin, his slide, perfectly balanced with easy grace, never taking his eyes from her. Metis wisely kept silent and let him have his say.

"I would make the world burn for you," he murmured. "I would make the world burn and walk through the fire of it for you. And the fault of that is mine."

She was moving toward him before she even realized what she was doing. "Tom."

He looked up as she reached him, as she put a soft hand on his forearm. "I thought this was meant, I thought it was so perfect. I thought it was my right, I thought you were. But I was wrong. I've been very wrong." He looked up at the sky again, then down into her face. "Will you love me always? Will you offer me your heart with a smile? I wonder."

"You should know better by now," she said softly.

"Oh, but now is different than before, and that's why I ask the question."

"The only one who could make me stop loving you is you, Tom," she replied, realizing how true the words were as she spoke them. "That power is all yours."

"I suppose it is, isn't it? I wonder how I would do it."

The ice creaked beneath her feet, the warning of falling into darkness and cold, of falling down and down. Metis found it didn't worry her anymore. She was already falling and had been for as long she could remember. But, for form's sake, she said, "We'll fall through if we stay here."

"Walk with me then. Dance." He pulled her close. She gasped at his touch: he burned like a thousand fevers, his eyes wild and too dark, too wide. "If we keep moving nothing can touch us. We'll be too fast. Won't we, love?"

"Tom…"

"Stay with me." She looked back toward the castle, but he caught her face, turned her back to him. "No. Don't look there. Don't look anywhere." He caught her wrists, spun her on the black ice, his breath gusting in the night air. "Stay with me, stay with me. And if we fall… then we fall."

***

The Huertgen Forest reminded June of nothing so much as an old-fashioned Christmas snowglobe. She'd had one as a child, complete with towering pine trees and a sugar-frosting of snow that settled on the eaves of a tiny gingerbread cottage. Tiny carolers no bigger than thimbles sang "O Tannenbaum" when she shook their glass home.

The Huertgen Forest was exactly like that long-ago toy – but dashed and broken, the evergreens felled by tanks, the gingerbread cottages smoldering husks in scarlet-splashed snow. The music, however, was the same. She'd gone out to the line the night before, she and several other of the correspondents trying to bring some Christmas cheer to the foot-weary soldiers. Leaning on their rifles, the troops of the American First Army grinned and chatted like the battlements were nothing any more or less than a USO Club back home. The night had been oddly quiet down at that end of the line, until at midnight they could hear singing on the not-quite-snowy night air.

O Tannenbaum, 

O Tannenbaum, 

Wie treu sind deine Blatter! 

Du grunst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, 

Nein, auch im Winter, wenn est schneit. 

O Tannenbaum, 

O Tannenbaum, 

Wie treu sind deine Blatter!

The German voices were so young and sweet it sent a chill through June that had nothing to do with the icy weather.

And so it was Christmas Eve. The American line had broken eight days ago and the Germans had them on the run, back through Belgium, or back to Normandy if the Germans had their way.

The day dawned crisp and clear, but the mood in the camp remained tense. No one had said anything official, but it looked as though the Americans were planning to make a stand here. June and Freddy fully expected to be sent packing at any moment, back well behind the line to the evacuation hospital or somewhere else "safe." As though there were such a place on the Continent.

"Good morning, partner," Freddy beamed, striding across the encampment to where she sat with a portable typewriter whose keys were jammed together from the cold. "Or should I say 'Merry Christmas'?" He grinned at her, expelling a smoky breath onto his hands, pink under his fingerless gloves.

June took a sip of gritty, black coffee from a tin mug. "What are you so happy about, Freddy?"

"You and I, Lisbon, get to stay for the big dance."

"Really? Both of us? They aren't going to send the little woman back to the safety of a five-star hotel in Spa?"

Freddy sobered briefly. "Nah. Germans bombed Spa last night. Not much left of that five-star hotel to go back to."

They sat in silence for a moment. There had been a lot of correspondents at that hotel along with the soldiers. June could only hope most of them had gotten out in time.

Freddy squeezed her shoulder briefly. "I'm sure it's fine, kid. Anyway, I thought I'd take some pictures of the troops today -- Christmas in the trenches and all that. Did you want to talk to some of them, maybe get some nice, fuzzy holiday quotes?"

June smiled in spite of herself. "You know, Freddy, I can't even tell when you're being cynical anymore."

Freddy shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah. Me either." He snapped the case shut over her typewriter. "Come on. Get your gear. Let's move."

Armed with notepad and pen (a contraption June was still not entirely comfortable with), she made the rounds of the troops. The Americans tended to be more talkative, so they sought them out first.

Rounding a corner, June almost stumbled over a tiny knot of American GIs, warming themselves around a large jar filled with blue fire. Catching sight of her, one of them cursed, motioning frantically to another young man who appeared to be stirring the blue flames with a slender stick.

"Can it! We've got company!" 

The GI's scrambled, blocking the fire from view. June laughed and dug inside her field coat for her own wand.

Holding it up, she said, "It's all right, for heaven's sake."

"Well, what do you know," the first American grinned. "Come on over then and share our fire."

One of the Americans up-ended a bucket for June to sit on, pulling it close to the blue flames.

"You fellows about ready to head back to the States?" she asked conversationally.

"Home?" one of the GIs snorted. "Nobody's going home. We've got a long haul yet in this fight, and anyone who tells you different is either stupid or the brass."

"Or both!" another laughed, slapping his knee at his own joke.

"All right then," June grinned. "Who fancies sending a message to the folks back home?

***

"Nice work, kid," Freddy said, lounging against an abandoned jeep and thumbing through June's notes. "We might actually make a reporter out of you yet."

June grinned at him. "Praise from Sir Hubert and all that."

"Yeah, yeah." He waved her off, but couldn't hide a pleased smile.

The sun was bright in the afternoon sky, doing nothing to melt the ice on the ground. The camp remained relatively quiet, save the occasional companies returning from patrol. One of these came into view around a bend in the road, and the guards stood up slightly straighter at attention. Freddy watched disinterestedly, talking all the while about the photos he'd taken that morning. A cloud crossed the sun briefly, the shadows on the frozen ground shivering in and out. A guard called out to the sergeant at the head of the company in the road.

"So anyway," Freddy continued as the soldiers filed past. "I figure we can get these on the wire in time for the evening edition if Smythe gets back with the-" He stopped, sitting up poker-straight on the jeep's hood as a scuffle broke out somewhere down the line.

"It's the goddamned Krauts!" someone behind them yelled, too late. One of the newly-arrived soldiers pulled a grenade and tossed it into the crowded yard. The scene exploded in a hail of shrapnel and frozen mud, and June felt herself flung backward into something solid and metal.

She rolled over to find Freddy picking himself up into a careful crouch on the ground. She tried to follow suit, only to discover that she couldn't get up.

"Aw, shit, Lisbon," June heard Freddy gasp through the haze of pain that obscured her vision. "No, you don't. You have _not_ gone and got yourself shot after all this time."

"I'm- I'm all right, Freddy," she managed, levering herself up on one elbow and only just managing not to be sick. "It's just shrapnel, I think. It doesn't look too bad."

The ground next to them exploded with the impact of a sniper's bullet and Freddy hit the dirt. "Medic!" June heard him yell through a mouthful of mud.

An American medic was at their side almost immediately, digging ampules of morphine and a clean bandage from his pack. Behind him, June could see wounded and dead lying exposed near the center of the blast. Close to them lay one of the boys she'd interviewed earlier that day. A handsome, eighteen year old kid from… where? San Francisco, maybe? And he needed help far more than she did.

The medic was on his knees beside her, uncapping the morphine. June tried to push him away. "No. It's not that bad. Help them…" She waved helplessly toward the fallen American GIs. "Please…"

"She's right," June heard Freddy say softly to the medic. "Give me the bandages and you get going."

The medic hesitated for a moment before handing a few supplies over. "All right. But you take care of her. If one of these little ladies even gets a hangnail, we're all in for it."

"Right-o," Freddy said, gripping the American's shoulder in brotherly salute. The medic scampered off, crawling over to the soldiers.

She gasped in pain as Freddy jabbed the morphine into her outstretched arm. The burning pinch was followed almost immediately by a rush of warm numbness, like sliding into a hot bath. It was the warmest she'd been since they left Paris.

She was peripherally aware of Freddy bandaging her as best he could, ducking the German sniper fire that spat from the trees. Out in the open, the two of them were pitifully exposed, and it was sheer miracle that neither was hit. Bandages in place, Freddy flung her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, crouching low, and ran full-out for cover.

He laid her down between two jeeps, and pulled his sidearm, watching the trees for fire. She watched as he targeted one area in particular and fired three shots in quick succession. 

She lost a few minutes of consciousness, and when she came to Freddy was gone from her side. She still lay behind the front wheel of an abandoned jeep, only now several soldiers had taken cover there as well.

"Hey, there, gorgeous," one of them said, looking down at her. "This isn't the way I usually like to have a first date, but things as they are, it's better than nothing, right?"

June tried to form her lips into a smile, but only managed what felt like a pained grimace.

"Yeah, I know," the soldier said grimly, ducking as sniper fire sparked against the far door of the jeep. His profile shimmered and wavered behind the blurry waves that rolled across her vision.

"Merry fucking Christmas," someone close to her growled, and the snick of rifle being aimed was the last thing she heard before everything went dark.

***

The world returned as a series of fuzzy sensations. The first thing June became truly aware of was the steady background drumming of the ack-ack guns, peppered with an occasional, distant explosion. 

"Finally decided to come back from the land of morphine, have we?" said a blur at her bedside.

"Hayden?" she asked, shaking her head as though that would clear the fog.

"Hullo, darling," he grinned insolently at her, leaning back in his chair. "You know, if you wanted my attention there were slightly less painful ways to go about getting it."

"What on- Hayden?" she repeated, dumbly, trying to take in her surroundings. "Where am I?"

"The Ninth Armored Field Hospital, if that means anything to you. It's all rather Greek to me."

The room still seemed to be swimming slightly and she couldn't quite feel her toes or the tip of her nose. "Did you… did you say something about morphine?"

"Yes," Hayden grinned. "And rather a lot of it. You're going to have a couple of nasty scars, June darling. Though," he lowered his voice, "we can have that easily put to rights once we get you home."

"Home?" she blinked, keeping her eyes open with an effort. "Nobody's going home, Hayden. We've a long haul yet in this fight." She paused, taking a breath, collecting the shards of fractured memory from the day before. "I remember… the Germans snuck in… Where's Freddy? Is he all right?"

"You're better off than you have any right to be, thanks to your friend Parker."

"Is _he_ all right?"

"Just fine. He patched you up nicely, both the traditional way and the, well, not so traditional. You're a sight better than most of these nice folks." He gestured around the makeshift ward.

"How long have I been here?"

"Full of questions, aren't we? If only you could hear yourself," Hayden said, amused. "Well, you've not quite missed the roast goose and figgy pudding." He smiled. "But it was a near thing. Then again, I doubt you'll want the dried turkey and tinned cranberries these Americans pass off as a Christmas feast."

She'd been unconscious for a little over a day then. She settled back against the pillow, trying not to wonder what that amount of time could have meant for the First Army. Only a day surely, but in battle… Only a day… A thought occurred to her abruptly.

"Hayden, how on earth did you get here?"

"Well…" He had the grace to look sheepish. "I may have pulled a string or two."

She sat up, even though the world swung sickeningly with the movement, and looked at him. He was dressed in the drab grey-green of a British officer, but the material of the uniform was rumpled and creased, suggesting that he'd slept in it. The Pegasus Flash of an airborne trooper was hastily sewn onto one sleeve, but his other insignia proclaimed him an infantryman and his helmet was on backward.

"I'm not even going to ask who you had to bribe, or sleep with, or promise _not_ to sleep with, to get here."

Hayden laughed and clapped his hands. "Oh, that's my darling girl! My little tartar. I'm so pleased you aren't dead."

"And I'm pleased to see you," she said, feeling emotion well up inside her, though that might have been the morphine. "It's been rather tough out here, you know," she heard herself say before she could stop the words. "I've missed you."

"Well," Hayden seemed slightly taken aback. "You know I've missed you like hell, but once you're feeling better I'll deny to the death that I ever admitted it." He paused for a moment. "It gave me quite a turn when we got that owl, I will say. I thought your mother would faint quite dead away. Your loving family insisted I run right out here and rescue you."

"And Albus?"

"Oh… well. I suppose I rather forgot to tell him."

"You didn't tell him!" she exclaimed, struggling to sit up again, but Hayden put out a restraining hand. 

"I'm sorry, darling. That was an awful ass of me, wasn't it? Old Professor McGoodyTrousers is probably delirious with worry. I'll owl him directly."

"Hayden!" she protested weakly.

"I know, I know, dear girl," he said softly, catching one of her hands up in his. His hands were very warm; some of the numbness in her fingertips seemed to melt beneath their heat.

"Ah, awake I see," an efficient-looking nurse stopped beside June's bed and began fiddling with her IV. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," June replied. "I'm fine."

The nurse favored them with what may have been a wry smile. "Enjoy it while you can. I imagine you won't be nearly so comfortable once this wears off." She poked a slender needle into the IV tube, and almost immediately June began to feel drowsy.

"Hayden?"

"Don't you worry about a thing, darling. I'll be right here till you wake up."

"You'll tell Albus, won't you?"

"On my honor as a gentleman."

"A lot of good _that_ does me," she muttered. 

He chuckled softly, letting go of her hand. "Nevertheless, I _do_ promise." He paused. "Now go to sleep like a good girl."

She settled back against the scratchy pillow, closing her eyes, the morphine like hot brandy in her blood, dragging her down into sleep…

"Hayden?"

"Yes, June?"

"Fix your uniform," she heard herself mumble, as the world began to fade into cloud-soft greyness, "before you're shot as a spy."

Hayden chuckled, leaning forward so that his breath was soft against her ear.

"Merry Christmas, darling."

***

*Freddy's "Mr. and Mrs. Bickerson" crack comes from S2 of Angel, though I'm not sure a pop culture reference can be strictly said to 'belong' to anyone. The Bickersons were a bit on a radio comedy show, and though I'm a little fuzzy on precisely when they were popular, I think it was circa the late 1930s. At any rate, it's not _totally_ anachronistic. ^_- The Hotel Scribe did not actually have front steps in 1944, but I'd already written the scene when I stumbled across a picture of the place, so I left it in. The SecretAgent!Heidi that poor Seward keeps mooning over is, of course, the femme fatale, fic cameo alter ego of our very own Heidi Tandy. 


	10. Noir

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER NINE 

Summary: The further adventures of the Ministry of Magic's Most Unwanted, smoking in the girls' room, and Albus and June, sitting in a tree.

  
CHAPTER NINE -- NOIR

Ohh, no one is near   
I may cry oh, oh, oh but no one can hear   
Mama may scold me 'cause she told me it was naughty   
But then, please do it again, just do it again 

(from _do it again_)

  
A slushy March rain had been drizzling onto the London pavement all day. Jack Seward, alone in his dreary basement office, couldn't see the rain, but he could hear it, spattering against sewer grates and cascading down gutters. The office was warm, though, and Seward snapped on another lamp in a futile attempt to chase the persistent grey shadows from the corners of the room.

In the months he'd been gone, the office remained largely untouched -- as far as he could tell. That didn't really mean anything, of course. Seward himself knew a hundred different ways to search a room without disturbing so much as a dust bunny. He'd taken the precaution of removing anything controversial before he'd left, and nothing else appeared to be missing. What he was looking for then, as he began dismantling his wall clock, was anything that had been _added_. He pried the backing off the small, metal clock, ignoring its slight groan of protest, and began to probe around inside. 

A soft footstep from the doorway froze his hands above the tiny brass workings. Seward straightened up slightly at the noise. "I wondered how long it would be before you decided to pay me a visit."

"Did you?"

He turned slowly to face his visitor. "Hello, Heidi. Sorry to see me back safely?"

The expression on her face flickered slightly, but her step didn't falter. She strode into his office and calmly took the only chair. "Now why would you say something like that?"

"Don't fuck me around. I know your agenda, remember?"

"Jack" She paused, looking at her hands, folded in her lap. "Jack, don't. I'm not your enemy."

He leaned back against his desk, watching her carefully. She'd changed her hair since he'd seen her last, he realized irrelevantly. It was shorter, pinned into curls around the frame of her face, falling slightly over one eye like some noir femme fatale. She must have been hitting the cinema on the sly.

"What do you want?"

She crossed her legs and leaned against the arm of the chair, propping her chin on one hand. "To say hello, of course. How was the Continent? Ghastly, I expect, things being what they are."

"I don't know. Paris was pretty nice. Thought of you while I was there, as a matter of fact."

"Did you?" She smiled and for a half-second things were right again, the way they used to be. 

But he couldn't allow himself to be fooled by the past, by the person she used to be. So, instead, he said, "Oh, sure. We stayed in this hotel, reminded me of Prague. You remember Prague, don't you?"

She remembered all right, he could tell. Her back went very straight and she wouldn't quite meet his eye. "I thought we agreed not to talk about Prague."

"I was thinking about that place," he continued, ignoring her. "That little shop, you remember the one-"

"Jack," she said abruptly, cutting him off, "what were you doing in Paris?"

"Don't you already know? You ought to. Your boss was there himself."

She looked up, surprised. "Price was there? He didn't-"

"What's this? Are you out of the loop?" Seward said unkindly. He leaned down to her. "Maybe you'd best start watching your back. We all know how Price can be with agents who fall out of favor."

"Stop that," she whispered. Or maybe he just imagined it, because in the next moment she stood, looking cool as ever and said, "Your friend Dumbledore was returned safely back to the welcoming arms of Hogwarts in December." She paused, watching him carefully. "What on earth did they keep you doing for three months?"

Seward grimaced. "I doubt you want to know."

"I'm always interested in you, Jack."

"I'll just bet you are. Maybe you ought to ask your boss. I suspect it was his doing, after all."

"You can't blame everything on him, you know, Jack."

"Why not?" Seward asked. "He certainly wants people to think he runs the universe."

"Don't make Will angry. You make light of it, but he _is_ powerful-"

"Oh, it's _Will _now, is it?" He backed her up a step and leaned in. "I suppose I ought to have known you'd do anything to get ahead."

She took a step back, putting the chair between them. "Believe whatever you want. You will anyway." Her expression went very serious. "But can't you see that I'm trying to protect you?"

He laughed bitterly. "You're _protecting_ me? The way you protected Hart?"

"That's not fair. You don't understand. You weren't there. You don't know what was at stake."

She tried to walk away, but he blocked her path with an outstretched arm. "But I do, Heidi. I do understand. Better, I think, than you do."

"I'm just trying to do what's right! That's all I've ever tried to do. Why do you keep punishing me for that?"

"Aren't you the good little soldier? Just following orders."

"Jack-"

"Get out, Heidi." He pushed away from her, and walked over to the desk. "I don't need your help, or your protection. Not that it's worth much."

She was silent for a long moment, and Seward sat back down at his desk and resumed poking at the workings of the clock.

Finally, she said, "So that's how things are between us, then?"

"That's how they are," he replied, refusing to meet her eyes again.

"Fine." She turned back and arched an eyebrow at him as she breezed out. "Problem with your clock?"

"No, no problem. Why?"

***

When the beginning of the end came, it was, of course, Metis' fault. She couldn't leave things alone; she needed and wanted and pulled. And, in the end, that caused everything to unravel.

"You'll drain me dry," Tom said to her once, but it wasn't true. They both knew it. She was the one who was drained, who was empty. She felt hollowed out and it wasn't fair. She wanted, too. He wasn't the only one. She needed, and she'd begun to grow tired of the lack.

So she pulled.

She pulled the thread that unraveled the world. But of course she hadn't known that then. All she knew was that she needed Tom and he didn't need her anymore -- or, at least, he seemed not to.

"You're so far away."

It was Saturday afternoon and it was raining, big, half-frozen drops against the leaded windowpanes.

"I'm right here," Tom said. His head was in her lap, but she couldn't see his face. She could see the way the fire played on his hair. She could see the line of his neck, the way his hands held his book. Tom was always reading these days. There had been a time he'd read out loud to her, but lately he read silently, only to himself, only for himself. He closed the book when she spoke to him, covered its spine with a hand so she couldn't read the letters engraved there. She hadn't asked, but it was slowly killing her not to know. She suspected that he knew this and still said nothing.

There were days when Metis wondered how it was that she hadn't failed out of school. She couldn't concentrate. Even sitting in class where the world should have been clear and sharp and written in black India ink, there were greys and shadows and blurs. She wrote and answered automatically, without any real thought. Her teachers never seemed to notice. They congratulated her as always, she still earned good marks. Sometimes she would receive an essay back and find herself staring at the words. Who had written them? It seemed impossible that it could have been her.

Arithmancy was possibly the worst of all. All those numbers, cold and dry and distant -- they bored her, made her restless. None of it seemed real, she couldn't imagine how it could possibly matter.

So one afternoon, when no one was looking, she slipped out of class. Even if someone _had_ noticed, she might have gone anyway.

She didn't have any idea where she was going really. Out. Away. That's all that mattered. Sitting still made her twitch, made the air stop in her lungs. She felt as though her whole life pressed down on her when she sat still and she couldn't think of anything but Tom. So Metis wandered. Aimless, looking for something. She wanted to go outside, wanted to run, but the sky was grey, cold, threatening rain again.

Metis heard someone coming along the corridor, so she yanked open the door to a nearby lavatory and slipped inside. Only to find she wasn't alone. Another girl was already there, sprawled carelessly on the floor in front of one of the sinks and rolling a cigarette between her fingers. Metis recognized her, but didn't know her name. She was a year or two below Metis, a little gawky, too thin, but still pretty in an unrefined way. The sort of girl that Tom called 'cheap.' She barely looked up when Metis walked past. But there was something familiar in the way she held herself, the line of her shoulders. She sagged under the weight of something bigger than she was, like maybe it was an effort for her just to breathe.  
  
Ashen, grey. Emptied. She looked the way Metis felt.

"Are you all right?" Metis asked carefully.

"I'm fine," the girl said, looking at Metis a bit suspiciously. "Or I will be, anyway." There was a pause and she muttered, "I'll kill him for this."

Metis ignored that and said, "Would you like me to fetch the nurse? Or maybe walk you back to your classroom?"

"I'm not going back in there," she said, standing up and cracking the window open. "Not today. I can't bear the whispering."

"I'll stay with you," Metis offered, not quite sure why she was doing it. "I wasn't getting anything done in Arithmancy anyway."

The girl looked ready to protest. But after a moment she seemed to relent a little, and held out a hand. "I'm Dana."

"I'm-" Metis began.

"Oh, I know who you are."

Metis blinked in surprise. "Do you really?"

"Of course," Dana said. That look was back in her eyes, as though she half-suspected Metis was making fun of her.

"I didn't realize," Metis said softly.

"Everyone knows you and the handsome Head Boy. You're quite the couple."

Metis didn't know how to respond to that, so instead she said, "Are you really all right?"

Dana laughed, and sat back down on the tile, fumbling with a match for the cigarette. "I am most definitely _not _all right. But I'm not in any immediate danger, if that's what you mean."

"If you're really sick, perhaps you ought to see someone."

"You really don't know, do you?" She laughed. "Well, there's one person, at any rate. Look, forget I said anything. Go back to your perfect boyfriend and your rich friends and your tidy little life. This isn't the sort of thing you're used to dealing with. You might get your hands dirty."

"It isn't," Metis said abruptly. The other girl looked up at her. "Perfect. It isn't perfect or tidy or anything that anyone thinks it is. You don't have any idea."

Dana leaned her head back against the sink and looked hard at her. "Maybe I don't."

Metis took a seat beside her on the cold tiles, pulling her skirt down to cover a bruise on her thigh. She suspected the other girl saw it anyway. "I can only imagine what you're feeling, and I'm sorry. It must be terrible."

"It's fixable," was all Dana said. "At least, I hope it is." 

She took a long drag on the cigarette and held it out to Metis. Metis accepted it politely and took a delicate puff, but she'd never liked the taste much.

"I suppose it's all my own fault," Dana said, taking the cigarette from Metis without looking at her. "I knew how he was, what he was, but I didn't really care. I'm not sure I do now."

"Even after you've been hurt?"

Dana laughed sharply. "Maybe even especially then. Something tells me you know how that feels."

Metis said nothing.

Dana just shook her head and looked at her wristwatch. "Time to go, I guess," she said, grinding the cigarette against the sink and reaching up to flick it down the drain.

Metis took her firmly by the arm and helped her up.

"I never thanked you, you know," Dana said once they were out in the corridor.

"You don't have to."

"Well, here's my ride, anyway," she muttered, and Metis looked up to see a nice-looking boy in her own year come round the corner.

He looked at Metis, his eyes widening slightly with recognition. She recognized him, too. Charles something-or-other. He was with Tom quite a lot lately, ever since Denis- Ever since Denis had gone.

"Where have you been?" he asked sharply, looking away from her, and Dana's head came up just fractionally. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I can't be expected to organize a bloody expedition to find you."

"I have to go," Metis said softly. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine."

Metis left them standing there, glowering slightly at each other, and fled down the hallway.

Tom was waiting outside her classroom, looking impatient and rather put out.

"Where have you been?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's not like you to wander off like that."

"I had something to take care of."

Charles and Dana came around the corner, arguing quietly. Metis watched them and didn't look Tom in the face.

"You know Charles rather well, don't you?" she asked after a moment. "What's he like?"

"He's a bit of a bastard. But we get on well enough."

"It's a pity about Dana."

"Who? Oh, the little Hufflepuff. You know about that, do you?" Tom held her hand absently as they walked.

"Well, it's what Ruth said anyway," Metis lied. "And if anyone would know, it would be Ruth." She watched Dana a moment longer before she let Tom tug her along down the corridor. "What do you suppose they'll do?"

"He'll have it taken care of, I suppose. He certainly has enough practice."

"Is that what you would do?" she asked softly. "If it were you? It if were us?"

Tom waved an impatient hand, ignoring the implication of that entirely. "Of course not. But that isn't going to happen to us." He paused, then gave her a second look. "It isn't, you know."

"I know. I just- I wondered."

He seemed to believe her, but she caught him watching her more carefully after that.

***

June didn't remember much about her homecoming. They crossed the channel on the first Sunday in January. The boat tossed on the waves and Hayden had looked slightly green and stayed below decks the whole trip. Back in England there was snow and sun and an endless succession of trains. Hayden held her gently by the elbow and guided her in and out of the crowds. 

She'd expected Hayden to take her home to London, and they'd been halfway to her parents' house before she'd caught on.

"Oh, Hayden. Must you? They'll make the most awful fuss."

"Really, darling," he said, looking vaguely scandalized. "You did almost die, after all. I think you owe the mater and pater at least a courtesy visit."

But her head hurt and her hands still shook and she was all out of courtesy.

It turned out, luckily, to be far better than she expected. Her parents were deferent and kind and didn't cling or ask too many unpleasant questions. And, for the first week, Albus sat at her bedside every day, holding her hand and looking pained. June insisted that she was fine, but he wouldn't be convinced. 

"You don't have to be brave," he said over and over. "Not with me."

And she tried to tell them that she wasn't being brave, she was only being how she felt, but no one seemed to want to hear it, Albus least of all.

But then, abruptly, at the end of February he stopped coming, and June didn't even know how to begin to feel about it. She wondered at first if he'd finally decided to give her the space she'd asked for. Then she wondered if he'd just gotten tired, gotten tired of the endless waiting and uncertainty, gotten tired of her. That bothered her more than she liked to think about.

She sent him letters that went unanswered. She owled the school and was politely but briskly informed that Professor Dumbledore was not to be disturbed for an extended period of time, and, no, they did not know when or if he would be available. Well, the last thing June planned to do was take that lying down. The only thing for it was to go find him. She got up one morning at the beginning of March, got dressed and went downstairs before she thought anyone else was up. She'd nearly made it out the side door when her mother caught her and bustled her back up to bed.

It was just after this incident that June insisted she be allowed to return to her apartment in the city. She'd been 'recovering' for over two months, and she suspected that all this forced bed rest and loving care had more to do with the fact that she was a woman than with any actual physical damage.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she told her parents she was leaving.

"But, dear," her mother said, with a worried sidelong glance at her father, "are you quite sure you ought to be all alone right now? The doctors are convinced that it's best for someone with a delicate constitution to be looked after until-"

"Until what, Mother? Until I can sleep without dreaming?" June took her mother's hand. "Yes, it was terrible. I saw some terrible things, and I got hurt. But I'm stronger than that. You both made me of stronger stuff than that. I'm going to be quite all right."

And after that, they let her go.

Hayden, of course, was convinced that all she really needed to make a complete recovery was some good brandy and a bit of fun -- both things, he declared grandly, that he had in ready supply. For her part June felt fine, but even Hayden refused to take her at her word on this point. But at least he made good on the promise of brandy.

"You have no idea how good it feels to be out," June said. "I thought I was going to go mad cooped up in that house."

They were in the drawing room of Hayden's townhouse, relaxing after a late dinner. Hayden put _Serenade in Blue_ on the phonograph, and rain drummed softly against the windows. June moved closer to the hearth and stretched out her hands toward the fire. 

"Well, I'm just glad to have you still in one piece," Hayden said. "I trust you've learned the folly of rushing off to fight other people's wars for them?"

"It was the right thing to do," she replied.

"You'll forgive me, of course, if I disagree with you," he said, busying himself with a decanter. "It has been my experience that no good ever comes of meddling in those affairs. It's, if anything, a kind of arrogance on our part. Because, surely the poor misguided Muggles couldn't settle their own disputes without our help."

"I hardly think that's what was intended-"

"Really, darling? You don't think it would have been a waste if you'd died? I think we've already lost quite enough to that sort of arrogance. I would think that we'd have learned our lesson thirty years ago."

"I told you months ago that I thought you were drawing too many parallels."

"And yet you still bled for them. You could have been killed. Many of our people have been killed, will be killed. And then what will we do the next time it happens?"

"If you'll recall, the Ministry didn't officially sanction those who went off to fight in the Great War. What's happening now is completely different. It's a very real threat, to all of us. Or it will be if it's allowed to continue."

Hayden looked unconvinced.

"You haven't seen the things I saw. I haven't talked about it much, because everyone's been so worried, but Hayden, these people need to be stopped. They burn women and starve babies. They're monsters."

"Be that as it may, June, it wasn't your fight."

"Whose fight _should_ it be, then?"

"Not yours," he said stubbornly. 

"I know what you're thinking. I know why this makes you so angry, but this is not the same as the things happened before. The people who have gone off to fight this time don't have the same motives, the same romantic view of battle"

"They were fools. All of them."

"But, Hayden, your father-"

"My father was an misguided fool who had no business running off and getting himself killed. Brandy?" He held a snifter out to her.

She took it.

"I can't discuss this with you anymore," she said, sitting down again by the fire. "Not if you won't admit why it really upsets you so much." She settled back, crossing her arms across her chest.

"What is it you want me to say?" he asked, flinging himself resentfully into a chair opposite her. "That it hurt? That my mother cried for days and I didn't understand why? That I've resented his selfishness all this time? That I've been angry with him for twenty-seven years? Fine. Consider it said, but don't expect me to lie in your lap and cry about it."

"Hayden," she began gently, putting down her glass and catching up his arm.

"You are a terrible influence on me." He shook his head.

"Why?" She scooted closer, still holding his arm. "Because I make you say what you're really thinking?"

"You never used to, you know. And don't think I don't know whose influence_ that_ is."

"I wish I could figure out why you dislike him so much," June said with a frown. "After all this time, I really don't understand it."

"Don't you?" He leaned back out of her reach, looking wryly amused, and took a sip at his brandy. "Then again, perhaps you don't. You're very perceptive when it comes to things that don't involve you personally, darling, but about your own affairs, you can be positively blind."

"Whatever do you mean by-" June began, but was cut off by the arrival of the butler.

"There's a gentleman to see you, sir."

"At this time of night?" Hayden raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't want money, does he?"

"I don't think so, sir. Shall I find out for you?"

"Oh, yes. Please do. And if he is here for extortion, just pay him the going rate and send him off."

The butler bowed slightly and left the room.

When he had gone, June asked with a laugh, "Are you blackmailed often?" 

"Oh, quite frequently. One can't live an interesting life without paying for it, though, I've always said."

"Yours could be a touch less interesting and still be more so than most people's. It might be good for you."

"There's only one way that will ever happen, darling, and that's with the love of a good woman." He leaned forward, grinning. "And what do you think are the odds of a good woman ever consenting to have me?"

June laughed. "Slim to none. She'd have to be unspeakably brave."

The butler returned, looking almost amused -- if a proper butler could ever strictly be said to look amused. "The gentleman insists that he has no desire for any monetary compensation and that it is of the utmost importance that he speak to you. Shall I tell him to call tomorrow?"

"No, no. By all means, bring the fellow in. I'm terribly intrigued by all this cloak-and-dagger melodrama." Hayden rubbed his hands together. "Perhaps we'll have some excitement tonight, after all."

June raised an eyebrow. "An evening with me isn't exciting enough for you?"

Hayden opened his mouth to speak, then paused, reconsidering. "Oh, don't tempt me, darling," he said after a moment. "You almost make it too easy."

The butler returned then, followed by, to June's very real surprise, Jack Seward.

"Jack!" she said, without thinking.

"You know this fellow?" Hayden asked, standing up. "Then you both have me at a disadvantage."

"I'm sorry to call on you so late," Seward began. "But Miss Lisbon's household told me she was here and it's kind of urgent." Turning to June, he said, "We've got a problem. A big one."

"Have you gotten yourself mixed up in some sort of intrigue, darling? How delicious."

"Hayden, be quiet."

"I'm quite cross that you didn't include me, though."

June sighed heavily. "Hayden, Jack is Albus' partner on a bit of a research project. They were on the Continent together last year. I'm quite sure I've told you all this."

"Ah. But you made it sound dreadfully boring." He turned to Seward. "I think I quite prefer the way you tell it."

Seward gave June a look that clearly said,_ Is this guy for real?_ But he accepted a large brandy when Hayden handed it to him.

"Do have a seat and tell us all about this problem of yours," Hayden said with a mischievous grin.

Seward took a long drink from his brandy, looked up at them both and said, "I can't find Dumbledore." 

"Whatever do mean, old boy? Have you misplaced the Professor? I can't imagine he'd wander off on his own."

"He's just gone," Seward said, looking worried. "My owls have gone unanswered, the school has been completely unhelpful and nobody else seems to have seen him." He looked at June. "I thought you might've."

"No, it's been weeks since we last spoke. I haven't been out very much lately." She paused. "I thought- Well, I just haven't seen him."

Seward looked at her for a long moment. "I know I shouldn't ask, but do you suppose you could try to get in touch with him? The formidable old doorwardens at that school won't let me in, but I can't imagine they'd turn you away."

"Now, look here," Hayden said. "I'm sure you're a nice fellow and all, but June's not well. She's not going to go running all over the countryside just because old Dumbledore's got himself-"

"Hayden." June held up a hand, silencing him, then turned to Jack. "I'll find him for you. I have a few questions to ask him myself."

***

The sky cleared and Metis dreamt of gold.

She dreamt honey and amber, the blood of trees and the earth's breath. She dreamt gardens and wild-lands, fields and fens. She dreamt a river, golden with rushes and the summer sun. Butterflies, fat-winged, yellow and black, and green-gold moss and decay. Yellow-feathered arrows and golden strings. She dreamt grasses and flowers, wind and waves. She saw the sandy edges of the ocean and tasted yellow apples and burning leaves, felt the sting of a honeybee. 

She dreamt a world that was young and stones that were old. She dreamt, she felt, the beginning of everything and the end of it all. She dreamt yellow parchment paper and black charcoal, records and pictures and careful script. The words on the parchment flowed and changed, tidal and fluid. They came together and formed a snake eating its own tail. Round and round and over and over. The snake came and changed the dream, made it red, then blue, then green, then gold again.

Metis dreamt life and death and circles, and a little girl with a stone knife. The girl was small and wild, her hair pale yellow, and she held the knife by the blade. Blood seeped from between her fingers and fell onto the black earth. In her other hand, laced between her fingers, she held a ruined silver chain, the clasp broken as though it had been yanked from her neck.

"There is no such thing as Death, you know," the girl said, and Metis wasn't quite sure who she was speaking to. "There is no Death, no rest, and it is all his fault. I never wanted this. I want a sunset; I want an end to things. I want back the things he took from us." She closed her eyes then, and said, "I think you could give it back, any of you could, but you will not. We will have to wait."

She fell silent, and Metis woke up.

***

Saturday morning found Albus, both literally and figuratively, up a tree. He'd taken to hiding himself away on the weekends. First, in his office; then, as more people had figured out where to find him, in the prefect's garden in the north wing. The place must have lost some of its popularity since Albus had been a student. This was the second weekend in a row he'd locked himself away and he had yet to see another soul. And if there had been anyone else in the garden, Albus would have seen them. Halfway up a stately old elm, he'd found a branch that stretched out over the pond. It was the perfect size and shape for sitting, and, even better, afforded him a view of the entire garden.

Which was why he felt an utter fool when June managed to sneak up from behind and take him by surprise.

"I thought you might be here," her voice said from below him. It was around noon and he must have fallen asleep at some point during the morning. "I'm not sure why I thought it, but I did."

He started guiltily out of his half-doze and nearly out of the tree, and looked down at June, standing with one hand planted on her hip at the edge of the water. She'd lost weight, was paler than he remembered her. She looked coolly up at him, seemingly unruffled, but he noticed that she leaned slightly against the tree's trunk for support.

Feeling guilty, he sat up, swinging one leg over the branch and looking down at her. "You know me too well by now, I suppose."

"That's what makes it so odd," she said, stepping lightly onto the lowest branch and trying to pull herself up. "This isn't like you at all."

He caught hold of her arm and helped her up beside him. He could feel her ribs underneath her skin when he held her around the waist to steady her. She felt like she might shatter if he squeezed too tightly.

"I am sorry," he said, a little taken aback. "I didn't mean to worry you. I just needed some time, someplace quiet to think. I've had quite a lot to consider over the last month or so."

"Have you?" she asked, surprised. 

He leaned back against the tree trunk, and June leaned against him in turn, resting her chin on his knee.

"What you really mean is you're hiding from us. All of us." At his confused expression, she said, "Jack came to see me when he couldn't find you. And here I'd thought it was just me you were avoiding."

"Is that what you thought?" he said softly.

"What did you expect me to think?"

He didn't know what he'd expected, and maybe a mean little part of him had wondered if she'd even notice his absence.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "That wasn't my intention. Things have just moved rather more quickly than I'd thought they would."

"Things?"

And here was the trick of it. The real reason he hadn't wanted to see her. How much ought he tell her? He didn't even want to know most of it himself.

"Well, you know Jack and I found something in Albania."

"One would hope," she said with a soft laugh. "After all the trouble you went to."

"Things have come to light recently things that make me think maybe I've been on the wrong track."

"What?"

He shook his head. "For the moment, I think it's better you don't know. At least until I'm sure."

For a moment he thought she might argue the point, but when he looked at her she only looked worried, and maybe a little weary. At last she said, "But you've told Jack, haven't you?"

"I didn't have to tell Jack. He was there with me to see."

"And I wasn't, is that it?" She put a hand on his arm. "All you had to do was ask, you know. I would have gone with you."

"Would you? I'm not so sure." He shook his head. "But that's beside the point. Even though Jack was there, he doesn't understand everything we found. I don't understand everything we found and I just need the time to work it out." That, of course, was partly a lie. There were things he did know, things he suspected, but he couldn't tell her. 

"This thing you've found," she began carefully, "it's in the past, isn't it?"

"No, not entirely. It's in the past but it's also about now, and things to come." 

She watched him for a long moment and he could tell she didn't like what she saw. "If you can't talk to me, at least talk to Jack. He's worried, and it might help you figure things out."

She scooted a little closer to him and he could smell her perfume. "I don't suppose you missed me at all?" She said it easily, but there was something behind the words. She was unsure of him, off-balance, and he had to admit he liked it a little. Maybe even more than a little.

He put a hand to her face, brushing her hair out of the way. She leaned in to the touch. "I missed you," he said. "Even with the fate of the world in the balance, I always would."

Her eyes widened a little. "Well, you know what they say about absence. Apparently, it's true. It's turned you into a poet." Then, more lightly, "Well, you certainly chose an interesting place to get away from it all, didn't you?"

"You always liked this place."

"So I did." She kissed him briefly, then pulled away. "You know, you did say once that you wanted me to come here with you. It's a bit after the fact, but it ought to count for something."

He laughed, feeling somehow relieved. "Yes, it does count. Even if it is ten years too late."

"I'd hardly call this too late. Besides," she grinned and a little of the color seemed to come back into her face, "I hear the submarine races are lovely this time of year."

***

More and more often, Metis found Tom in the library. More and more often, Metis found that she had to search for Tom when she wanted him, and she had begun to fear that he didn't want her at all. She found him this time in the very back of the deepest, darkest shelves, thick with quiet and years of dust. His attention was focused entirely on a book, he didn't acknowledge her when she approached.

"I looked for you," she said softly, and he didn't even look up.

"And now you've found me."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "Again. It's as though I thought we fixed things, I thought-"

He raised an eyebrow and kept reading.

She walked over to him -- suddenly bold, angry, desperate, something -- and slammed the book shut on his hand. He looked up at her in shock.

"What exactly," he said, uncoiling himself from the chair and standing up to tower over her, "do you think you're doing?"

"Making you see me. Do you think that I only exist when you want me? Do you think I can't see that there's something wrong with you?"

"You have your secrets, too. Don't think I can't tell, Metis. I can always tell."

"I don't keep secrets from you. You ought to know better." She turned away from him. "But lately there are things I think you'd rather not hear. Lately, I'm not always sure you listen when I talk."

"Oh, have I hurt your pride?" he asked, his voice going dangerously soft. He caught her wrists and spun her around to face him. 

"You keep pushing me away and then pulling me back," Metis said, surprised by how steady her voice was. "You can't have both. I won't let you. You have to decide."

"You won't _let _me?"

"No, I won't. I don't know what's the matter with you, but I know this is killing me."

"Killing you?" he said. "You don't know, do you? You half-know. You guess, you hide. You say things that-" He laughed sharply. "If you really knew you wouldn't say them. You wouldn't dare."

Metis straightened up as tall as she could and looked him in the eye. "I'm sorry, Tom. But I have to do this. I can't keep on as things are- I'm walking away. For good this time, I mean it." 

She didn't even make it half a step toward the door.

He shoved her back into one of the shelves, so hard books jumped and clattered and fell to the floor in a shower of dust. She struck her head on a sharp wooden edge and tears sprang into her eyes.

"Someone will hear, Tom," she said, reaching up to press a hand against the knot forming on the back of her head.

"Go ahead then. Scream. Bring them scurrying. I don't think you have it in you." He grabbed her arm and held on. She twisted and pulled and tried to get away, but he dug his fingers in, hard enough to draw blood. He looked at her in horror for a moment, then wiped the blood from his hands and began to laugh.

"I thought it was wrong," he said. "I thought it had to be wrong. But now I see. I see I could do it, and if I did it would be all your fault."

"Is that a threat, Tom?" 

"It's the truth of things. Only I didn't want to see it. I thought if I kept you away, just a little, then I could still have you. Then it wouldn't be true. But I can't stay away, and neither can you." He shook his head. "You won't walk away and leave me. You can't. You say it, because you want to see how I'll react. Is this what you expected? What you wanted? You certainly have my attention now, don't you?"

"I have to do something, Tom," she said, sitting down. Her vision blurred and she felt bruised and slightly sick.

"Maybe you ought to try seeing me," he said quietly, kneeling down beside her. "Really seeing me. You've never done that."

There was a long, silent moment and Tom took her hand in his.

"Open your eyes, Metis," he said at last. "You have to see. It may be the only thing you have left to you."

***

Dumbledore dropped his bombshell on a nondescript Friday afternoon, sunny for once and hinting at spring. Transfiguration was the last class of the day and the students were restless, casting lingering looks out the high, arched windows and tapping their quills impatiently on the wooden desks. Tom was in no particular hurry himself, but then he never was.

Metis had avoided him since that day in the library and he hadn't yet decided whether he was pleased about that or not. Certainly, it was the outcome he'd intended, but he missed her, missed her with an itch and an ache. He could still feel the lines and planes and curves of her when he concentrated, as though she was never altogether gone. At his desk, he leaned back, closed his eyes and thought about her. Not with poetry or fever, but thought about her as she was, flawed and frightened and blinded, but still, always his.

The whisper of in-drawn breath on the air in the half-second before the bell rang made him open his eyes. As he got up to go, he was aware of Dumbledore watching him, a measuring expression on his face.

"Stay a moment, won't you, Tom?" he said.

When the other students had gone, Dumbledore offered Tom a chair in his office.

"Am I in some sort of trouble, sir?"

"Have I ever mentioned, Tom, that I have a very good friend at the British Museum?" Dumbledore said instead of answering the question.

"I don't believe so, sir," he said, putting on his best, most attentive student air.

Dumbledore watched him for a moment, toying with a quill and ink. "Marvolo? That's a family name, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. On my mother's side."

"Do you know much about your mother's family?"

"A bit, sir." Dumbledore was being far too casual about this. It put Tom's back up. 

"This friend of mine. His name's Brendan," he said, as though that mattered. "He's been helping me with a bit of a project -- researching Salazar Slytherin and some of the things he's believed to have written. The name Marvolo has come up more than once."

Tom shifted a bit, judging the distance to the door.

"But I'm sure," Dumbledore smiled, "that you would have had no way of knowing that."

"Actually," Tom said casually, hoping to throw the professor off-balance, "the connection has been mentioned to me on occasion, by people with an interest in such things."

"Indeed." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "And what have these interested parties told you?"

Tom shrugged. "That my family was long thought to have descended from Slytherin. That nobody knows whether it's really true."

"That is true," Dumbledore continued, off-handedly. "Even if you wanted to prove something like that, it would be almost impossible these days. Unless, of course, there were records kept by the family. And, even then, they would hardly be reliable after all this time."

"What exactly are you asking me?"

Dumbledore sighed a bit heavily. "I'm not quite sure myself. But if there were something to what I'm saying, would you tell me?"

"Probably not," Tom answered bluntly.

"I figured as much." A pause, then, "Of course, if it _is_ true, or even if you just believed it were, there are things you ought to know." He stopped, looking intently at Tom. "Or perhaps you already know them. Do you know what I'm talking about, Tom?"

"Maybe."

"This is very serious, Tom. Do you understand that?"

"I take everything seriously." 

"I'm sure you do." But there was a hint of sarcasm beneath the words. Abruptly, though, it was gone and Dumbledore said, "Let me help you, Tom. It may be very important."

Tom said, nothing just shook his head.

"People are relying on us to do the right thing."

Tom sighed. "I never said I believed any of this business anyway."

Dumbledore watched him a moment, then said, "I think you believe it, all right. Or at the very least you want to believe. Isn't that right?"

Silence.

Changing tactics, Dumbledore sat back and fixed a hard gaze on him. "People may die, you realize. People you care about."

And that hit a bit too close to home. Tom shook his head sharply. "It doesn't have to be like that. Don't you see?"

Dumbledore leaned forward. "I don't see. I'd like to, but you have to help me to see."

Tom shut his mouth, sat up straighter in the chair. He'd already said too much, revealed too much of himself. He'd let his emotions goad him into being sloppy. He would say what had to be said to get himself out of this, but he wouldn't betray himself any further.

Dumbledore sighed. "Just tell me this then. What happened before, was it an accident? Or did you mean to kill that girl?"

"It was an accident," Tom said truthfully, because it had been. He'd certainly never intended to kill little Myrtle so sloppily. He'd never really intended to kill _her_ at all, but he wasn't sorry either.

"You couldn't have known, I suppose, what it was you let out." But Dumbledore didn't sound entirely convinced. "You ought to have come forward, though. Blaming young Hagrid was wrong and I think you know it."

"Maybe, but it was either that or sacrifice my own life. And I don't just mean my life as a wizard. Going back to the Muggle world now would kill me, very literally. If not with bombs and guns, then with poverty and hunger. It would only be a matter of time. If there is anything that the Muggle world taught me, it's survival. I can't apologize for surviving." And for a moment Dumbledore almost looked sorry for him. Good. "I won't tell now. And you can't prove it. I'm sorry, but I'm nearly finished here. Expelling me now would do no one any good."

Dumbledore shook his head, resigned, knowing maybe that he had no kind of proof against Tom. "I suppose I can understand -- after a manner. It is understandable, but the fact remains, Tom, that it was also wrong. I trust you've learned since then?" 

Tom nodded, for indeed he had. Many things. 

"Am I free to go?" Tom asked, getting to his feet.

"Of course, of course."

He was almost to the door, when Dumbledore said, "We are more than our destinies, Tom. You do understand that, I think."

It wasn't until the door was safely closed behind him, that Tom realized he'd been holding his breath. He leaned against the door and listened to the rapid beating of his own heart.

He was fated, he'd always believed in that wholly. It had made him who he was. But now, just now, he'd begun to wish that he could change it. Not entirely. Just a bit, just the parts he didn't like, the things he didn't want to do. He didn't think it would be all that hard to change things. Fate was fate, but he was, after all, his own master. There was no reason that he ought not to have both.

***

Spring bloomed and Metis dreamt of blood.

Scarlet and crimson, salt-hot like the ocean and she found she couldn't breathe. Blood and holly, ink and a little boy pricked by a crown of thorns.

But she knew somehow that, after this, she wouldn't have any more of these dreams.

"Why?" she asked out loud, but no one answered.

"We brought Death into the world," the boy said instead. "We brought Knowledge, and it left us here, where blood cries out from the ground. We've tried so long to make it right, but time works against us and we are so tired."

"Are you dead?" Metis asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

"Only something that lives can die," the boy said. "I think we were once. Alive, I mean. I think we were born from ashes. But it's been so long and there have been so many that sometimes it's hard to remember. It may have been real, but then it may also have been a dream. It might have been a vision or a parable or a prayer."

He reached down and picked up a sword, heavy and silver and ruby. He held it in front of him, point down, clutching the hilt like a crucifix.

"We are not who we were. But we will stop it, they will. They will conquer Death and it will be our reward."

***

  



	11. Dead Man Blues

So, a few weeks back I decided that my goal for this spring/summer was to finish the lingering works-in-progress I still have hanging around. 

I have to admit that I'm not wild about the last chapter of this fic. I'm not even really all that in love with the overall plot anymore. But I still love the characters, and I hate the fact that I haven't finished the silly thing. So I'm going to finish it. (Despite the fact that bits of the early chapters make me go, 'WTF was I thinking?')

So, here's the first half of Chapter 10. Oh, lordy.

CHAPTER TEN -- DEAD MAN BLUES

So all I ask is for you

To come away with me in the night

Come away with me

(norah jones, _come away with me_, 2002)

May, 1945

The day the war ended June went to church.

She hadn't planned to, but the bells of St. Paul's somehow lured her in, till she found herself in the back of the cathedral trying to blend in. She wasn't alone. It looked like half the city -- the half that wasn't drinking champagne or singing in the streets -- was kneeling gratefully right alongside her.

After the prayers were over and the bells were ringing, she walked home through London. The relief in the air was intoxicating. Everywhere she walked people sang, clasped hands, wished one another well. An entire block of row houses emptied, the inhabitants dragging their long dining room tables into the middle of the street and hosting the biggest tea party of all time.

June watched it all with a smile, wished them well, but didn't join in when they asked her. This wasn't her celebration, not really, and she knew it.

She wandered, though, delaying the inevitable. Or maybe savoring the moment, she wasn't really sure. All she knew was that Albus was waiting, and so, as the sun began to set, she turned around and headed home.

The sun went down on history and Albus watched from the fire escape of June's second-story apartment.

London lit up the night sky the way it had before the war. For the first time in almost seven years, windows were thrown wide, curtains left open, lamps left on. The streetlights glowed fuzzily and the headlamps on cars swung this way and that around corners and down avenues. It was a welcome sight.

He climbed back in the window and poured another glass of wine, waiting. He spent a lot of his time with June waiting. Tonight, though, he was a little grateful for it. He knew she'd be happy, and he didn't want to ruin that happiness for her. He was glad to see the war at an end, of course, but he knew things, saw the shape of the world to come, and was afraid.

He couldn't tell June any of this. He'd tried, and every time the words stuck in his throat. She would be angry if she knew, of course. She would never like the idea that he was shielding her, trying to protect her. So instead, he waited.

"Look outside," June said, and he turned around. She stood in the doorway, grinning at him. He hadn't heard her come in. "The world's gone new all over."

"Has it?"

She leaned against the doorjamb, her platform-heeled shoes dangling from one hand and tired bruises beneath her eyes. "You know it. I've been kissed by no less than twenty perfect strangers just on my way home. The Ministry was in an uproar this morning, but it's nothing compared to the streets out there." When he didn't answer, or move toward the window for a look, she said, "I expect I'll have my picture in the paper tomorrow. Won't that be one for the scrapbook?"

She dropped her shoes and bag at the door and headed for the bar. "I see you've made yourself at home." She tossed ice cubes into a tumbler without looking and began to rummage for the scotch. "Did you find the Cotes du Rhone to your liking? I can't abide it myself but I know you like it..."

Albus couldn't help but smile. "Yes, it was fine. Better than fine, actually."

"Nasty, sugary stuff," she muttered. "I don't know how you drink it." She stepped out from behind the bar, brought her glass to her lips and smiled at him. "Now, how shall we celebrate?"

"The fact that you've started keeping my favorite wine on hand is cause for celebration, isn't it?" He smiled a bit wryly.

"Well, I can't bear to watch you drink gin." June perched on the arm of the sofa and lit a cigarette. "You make the most desperate faces."

He grimaced. "It tastes of wood polish and pine needles." Then, after a moment, said, "You know, if you start stocking my brand of pipe tobacco there'll be no going back for either of us."

June took a long drink and made a face. "I'll keep that in mind the next time I find myself in a tobacconist's. But you still haven't answered my question -- why aren't you dancing in the streets alongside everyone else? It's the day for it. People are brazenly conjuring ticker tape and sparklers, and no one is any the wiser."

"I suppose I haven't the heart for that sort of optimism anymore," he said, standing up and crossing the room to stand opposite her.

"What is it, Albus? Even you must be relieved, today of all days." She tapped her cigarette out into an ashtray and waited for him to answer.

Instead, he turned away and switched on the wireless. June had the dial set to the BBC and that made him smile, just for a moment, before she was at his side. She touched his shoulder, softly, and her nearness took his breath.

"Let's go away from here," Albus said, catching her hand and pulling her closer.

She let him put her arms around him and sway against the beat from the radio. "We can't do that. And, anyway, you don't really want to."

"Says you," he murmured into the cloth covering her shoulder. She was wearing white muslin, old-fashioned and sweet, the sort of dress that looked good in newspaper photographs.

"What is it? Is something wrong? Tell me." She kissed him, soft and quickly, tasting of cigarettes, scotch and soda.

"The world is wrong. It always has been."

"Most of the world would argue today that things are finally right."

"It will only happen again," he said softly. "It's foolish to think it won't."

June put a hand on his cheek, turning his head so that he had to look at her. "Then let's be foolish. Just for a little while." She smiled. "Just for today."

"Just for today," he repeated, wishing they could. Wishing he could. He ought to tell her, but maybe, just maybe, if she didn't know she'd be safe.

He stopped dancing, put his hands on her hips and kissed her, mussing her lipstick and bringing both hands up to pull the pins from her hair. Long strands fell over her face, in between them, and he could taste her cream rinse. She laughed into his mouth and pulled away.

"What has gotten into you tonight?" She turned, looking at him over her shoulder and grinning, then sprawling across the sofa. Her window was open. She caught the end of the curtain in one hand, toying with it.

He crossed over and sat next to her, running a hand up her stockinged leg. She raised an eyebrow at him and for a moment he was afraid he'd gone too far. Things were still occasionally awkward between them, conversations full of minefields and words like cut glass, because neither knew where things stood. Not really. Tonight, though, Albus wasn't sure he cared. He wasn't sure he wanted to play by their always-changing rules anymore.

From the street below, he could hear singing. June was watching him a little uncertainly.

"Maybe we ought to get some champagne," she suggested. "It sounds like we're missing out on the celebration."

"I'm not much in the mood for champagne."

"I thought as much," she said, tugging gently on his shirt collar when he leaned over her again.

"Tell me what you want," he said, pushing the hem of that white muslin dress above her knee and hearing her catch her breath.

"I never know what I want. You know that." But her arm went around his neck.

"I know. But, tonight," he began, "tonight you have to decide."

"Do I?" she said, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked everywhere but at him.

"You said it yourself -- it's a whole new world today."

She took a breath, closed her eyes. He could see faint lines of fatigue beginning to show beneath her make-up. "It is, isn't it? Just the sort of day for beginnings." She slipped the topmost button of his shirt through the buttonhole and then back again, her scarlet-tipped fingernails clicking against the mother of pearl.

"I can't think of a better day," he said, and then she kissed him.

She kissed him and time stopped. He could still hear the outside noises through the open window, the cheers and songs and bells ringing, but they hardly mattered. He sat up, pulling June with him. Her fingers were at his throat and he caught them, thinking she was going to push him away, but instead she started unknotting his tie. It came free and she sat back, looking at him a little uncertainly.

"You did ask me to decide," she said, and reached for his hands.

"I did at that," he replied and let her guide his fingers to the buttons on her dress. She turned around and held her hair out of the way while he unfastened them. His hands were steady as he did it, and that surprised him.

It wasn't, after all, as though they were the awkward teenagers Albus always seemed to remember, and neither of them were exactly blushing virgins. Still, after all this time it ought to have felt more frightening, more breathless. It ought to have felt more. This just felt inevitable. As though no matter what else had happened, or what had been said, they were always going to end up here, like this. They'd both known it all along, of that he felt sure.

It was curiously disappointing somehow.

"Are you all right?" June asked, turning back around to him.

"I'm fine," he said and put his hands on her shoulders. She wasn't trembling either.

The breeze from the window grew colder, but neither of them moved to close it. The faint sound of bells and the smell of woodsmoke drifted in. Two flights down someone was playing a piano, and the BBC was still burbling softly on the wireless.

She slid out of her dress, tossing it away, and reached up to undo the rest of her hair. He stopped her, and started pulling the hairpins free himself. She relaxed against him and slid a hand up his chest before kissing him again, pulling him down onto the sofa. Somehow along the way he lost his shirt and belt and shoes.

After a moment, though, she pulled away.

When he opened his eyes, she was kneeling on the sofa beside him, in her ivory slip and silk stockings, laughing softly. "Has it really been two years?"

"In September," he said, but the truth was it had been far longer than that.

She leaned over him, one hand on each shoulder, her hair falling forward. "I'm sorry for making you wait so long."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not."

"Aren't you?"

He reached out and caught her around the waist, pulling her to him and settling her across his hips.

"No, I'm not," he said, and kissed her again.

Somehow in the course of the evening, they'd made it from the sofa into her bedroom and that was where June woke up. The sun had just barely risen and Albus was deeply asleep, one arm flung across her. His arm was heavy on her chest and she felt vaguely as though she couldn't catch her breath.

She got up, careful not to wake him, and went to sit in the living room with a cup of tea. The room was a wreck. A puddle of scotch and soda stained the wood floor where her drink had been knocked over. Her dress hung limply over the arm of the sofa.

The light from the windows was an unhealthy, early grey, and June went over and closed the window they'd left open the night before. Feeling restless, she wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

She'd half-expected the kettle's whistle to wake Albus, so she wasn't very surprised when, once she was settled on the sofa with a cup of strong, black tea, he wandered out of the bedroom, half-dressed, picking up pieces of clothing as he went.

"Good morning," he said, kissing her cheek familiarly. "You're awake rather early."

"I couldn't sleep." A pause. "There's tea in the kitchen if you'd like some," she said, and he wandered off to fix himself a cup. She watched him through the open doorway. He put in too much sugar; he always did.

Barefoot, he padded back into the living room, picked up his shirt from the floor and shrugged into it, buttoning it up and then turning the wireless on softly. He sat next to her on the sofa, pulling her feet into his lap and balancing a cup of tea in one hand, and for a moment they were so much like an old married couple that she lost her breath.

"What is it?" he asked with a smile.

"It's nothing. I'm just getting used to the idea, I guess."

"Of us?"

"Not just that," she said. "Everything. Everything's different than it was yesterday. All's right with the world and all that. Things, everywhere, look better than they have in a long while."

Albus didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked at her for a moment, then brought one hand up to touch her cheek.

"Have you talked to Jack?" she asked, and he pulled his hand away abruptly. "It's just that you said you would and-"

He looked away from her, digging into his shirt pocket and pulling out his watch. "Is it that late already?"

"Albus-"

"This really isn't the time, June." He pushed her bare feet out of his lap and stood up, searching for his shoes.

"I can tell that this ...whatever it is... is still bothering you."

"June, please." He turned and put his hands on her shoulders. "Don't push."

"It's not curiosity. I'm worried about you."

"Don't." He gathered up his coat and moved to go. "It isn't necessary."

She followed him into the entryway. "Will I see you tonight?"

He didn't answer right away. "I'm not sure. There's something..." He opened the door and turned back to face here. "I'll let you know later. Will you be here?"

"Of course," she said, and he was gone.

She finally came back to Tom, or he came back to her, on a wet, windy spring afternoon. The clouds hung low and threatening, the wind unseasonably cold. Metis lit an extra candle and took it with her down to the library. The corridors were grey and damp, even against the torches, and she was glad of the extra light.

She was especially glad of it when Tom came around a far corner. She held the candle up in front of her like a shield and hoped he would walk by without speaking to her.

They hadn't spoken in weeks. Metis began to think that they would never speak again, and she felt almost relieved. Almost. She knew, somehow, that things were better, safer, when they were apart. That didn't stop her from wanting him, or from missing him. It didn't stop her from being afraid of him, either.

Tom caught sight of her and stopped. "Metis."

"Tom," she said, and tried to walk past him.

He caught her by the arm. "Don't go."

"I have to," she said, pulling away. "I'm late."

"Then be late," he said, and pulled her toward him.

"No." She pushed him away, but he caught her and held her close again.

She dropped the candle. It fell to the damp, stone floor and went out with a soft hiss.

"What do you want, Tom?"

He looked at her for a long moment and said, "I want to make you strong."

"It wasn't what you wanted before."

"It is now," he said and took her by the hand, back downstairs where it was empty and quiet.

They fell into each other, a tangle of limbs and hands and fingers, and things were right for awhile. Outside, the weather howled and wept, outraged, but inside they were protected and together. At least for the moment.

Afterward, Tom lay next to her, propped on one elbow, looking down at her. "This doesn't change anything. You know that, don't you?"

"You wouldn't have to do this thing," she said, quietly. "But you want to. And I've never tried to stand between you and anything you've wanted. I won't now."

He smiled slightly. "I don't think, Metis, that it's up to me anymore. Events have begun move themselves."

"Maybe. But you could still stop it. I know you could."

"Dumbledore knows."

"What?" Metis sat up.

"He knows, but he doesn't understand what it means."

"I don't understand it, either," she said. "Not really. I've accepted it, but I don't understand."

"But you won't leave," he said, catching her hand. "You won't leave again." It wasn't a question.  
Metis settled back against him, and didn't answer.

She didn't see Albus that night. He didn't call for her. She sat up waiting, but in the end she was too proud to go to him. A fierce spring storm had kicked up, bringing first wet winds, then thunder, and June found herself, of all places, at Hayden Fairborne's door.

There had to be, part of her knew, a reason that she went running to Hayden every time she found herself in over her head, but she didn't really like to examine that too closely. Equally, that traitorous part of her would suggest on these occasions, there had to be a reason that Hayden kept letting her run to him. June shook her head fiercely, as though she could dislodge the thought, and rapped the brass knocker smartly. She wrapped her light coat around her, trying to keep warm while she waited, and was incredibly surprised when Hayden answered his own door. Her apology for calling so late, intended for the butler or housekeeper or Michael, Hayden's ever-patient valet, died on her lips. Instead, she could only manage, "Hayden?"

"June!" His hazel eyes lit up and he swayed slightly in the doorway. "I'm so pleased to see you."

"You're drunk."

"Well, perhaps a bit. But that doesn't make the sentiment any less true." He grabbed her, a bit too enthusiastically, by the arm and pulled her inside. "It's dreadful out. Come in and sit with me by the fire. You're just the person I'd like to have most tonight." He slid her coat from her shoulders before she could protest and led her into the parlor -- where she stopped dead.

"What on earth happened here?"

"I've been entertaining," he grinned, turning toward her, and she noticed he had a lipstick kiss on his collar and a decanter of brandy in one hand.

"In more ways than one, I imagine." June surveyed the wreckage of the parlor. Glasses littered the low table and the ashtrays spilled smudged and crumpled cigarettes. A lone woman's shoe lay on its side by the fireplace.

"Always." He scooped up the shoe, hooking his fingers through one strappy end and slinging it over his shoulder. He draped himself across the sofa, managing as always to look insufferably pleased with himself. "Now, June darling, what brings you here so late?"

"I-" June began, feeling suddenly very foolish. "I couldn't sleep."

He sat up, looking at her sharply. She took a seat beside him in front of the fire, but managed to avoid looking at him.

"Is something the matter?" Hayden leaned over, reaching for her. "What an ass I am not to have..."

She pushed his hand away from her shoulder. "I'm fine, Hayden. Just fine."

"Well, you certainly don't look fine, now you bring it up."

She laughed, a little bitterly. "Just what every girl wants to hear."

Hayden set the decanter on a side table and looked long and hard at her. "Good god. No one's died, have they?"

"Oh, Hayden. No," she said, feeling still more foolish. "I really shouldn't have come. I'm sorry." She struggled to sit up so she could make a semi-dignified retreat.

"Come with me," he commanded, standing up, grasping her by the hand and yanking her to her feet. He led her back through the long corridors and past the servant's hall, into a part of the house June had never seen. A part of the house she would, until tonight, have laid even odds that Hayden didn't know how to find.

"Why are we in your kitchen?"

"Tea," Hayden replied simply. "We're British. Isn't that what we do in times of crisis? Organize jumble sales and make tea." He grinned. "I'm afraid I haven't much jumble, but I've plenty of tea."

He rolled up his sleeves and began to rummage around the cupboards for tea, nearly throwing June's entire worldview into chaos.  
"You know where the tea is kept, then?" she asked weakly, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But it must be about here somewhere, mustn't it?" He ducked briefly beneath a wheeled buffet cart. "Ah-ha! There it is. I thought it might be, though I don't know why." He held a pair of silver-plated canisters out to her. "We've got... well, I'm not sure what we've got. There's some rather nasty-looking black leaves or some wilted green things- Is this really what tea looks like before it's brewed?"

"That's the rumor," June said and couldn't quite manage to control a smile.

Hayden put the tea on a sideboard and began to inspect a row of kettles, in various sizes and shapes. "Now, I suppose one just- No, don't help me. I'll figure it out." He chose one at random and began to fill it with water. "Now. You've come all this way. You obviously want to talk about whatever-it-is, darling. So talk."

June's smile vanished, and after a moment, she said, "It's just that I've done something -- something I'm not sure I ought to have done -- and there's no way to take it back."

"Do you want to take it back?"

"No, not now. Not yet. But I'm afraid I will."

He put the heavy, copper kettle on the stove and turned to her. "Why worry about the future? Why worry about what may be, what may never be? Learn to appreciate now, darling. You really ought to." He grinned. "You think far too much. It's your only flaw, at least as far as I'm concerned. That and unfortunate taste in men." When she didn't laugh, he added, "Or perhaps I'm just a drunken fool."

He sat down, taking her hands in his and said solemnly, "If that ass of a man has hurt you, in any way, I'll have his spleen-"

She pulled her hands away, not looking at him. "It's me, Hayden. Not him. I haven't any proper feeling. I don't know what it is I'm supposed to feel, but I know I don't feel it."

"Who says, darling, that you're supposed to feel anything? Love is what it is to lover and loved, and it doesn't matter very much what anyone else thinks it ought to be. It shows in what you do more than in what you feel. Surely you've learned that after all this time?"

"I just- Why can't I ever be sure? Other people seem so sure."

"It's because, darling, other people feel and you think. That serves you well in some cases, but not, I think, in this one."

The kettle whistled and Hayden got up. He fumbled a bit, but in the end was able to produce something not entirely unlike tea.

"Now, would you like sugar? Milk?" He stopped, going a bit green. "Good heavens. Where do we keep the milk?"

June began to laugh and found she couldn't stop.

"Just what the devil is so funny!" Hayden demanded, spots of color high on his cheekbones.

June waved a helpless hand at him. "I never thought I'd see you puttering around a kitchen, making tea like some old pepperpot."

Hayden sighed and cradled his cup in his hands, propping one foot on the back rung of the chair. His tie askew and his shirtsleeves rolled up, he looked utterly out of his element. "I suppose this is the thanks I get for playing agony aunt? For ministering to the wounds of your heart? For-"

"Don't you have people to do for you?" June interrupted with a grin. "I've never seen you get your own tea before. I've never seen you get your own anything before."

"Well, some conversations just ought to be had in a kitchen, don't you think?" He grinned. "Besides, it's terribly late. Even I let my servants sleep sometime."

"Do you? That is a surprise."

"I think you'll find, darling, that I'm full of surprises."

June grinned, but somehow it turned into a yawn. She covered her mouth with a free hand, then took a long drink of tea.

Hayden leaned forward over the back of the chair. "I might just succeed in truly surprising you one of these days, you know."

"Oh, really? And how would you propose to do that?"

He shook his head. "That would be telling. And then it would hardly be a surprise, would it?"

June smiled again. "You really are something else. No matter what minor tragedy befalls me, no matter what an ass I make of myself, you always know just what to say. It's usually absurd, but-"

"I think," Hayden said dryly, "that I will try to take that in the spirit in which it was intended."

"Of course," June said, yawning again and not really hearing him. "I don't deserve you," she mumbled, beginning to feel really very sleepy, resting her chin on one hand and closing her eyes.

Hayden took the chair beside her and said softly, "No, you really don't -- and you ought to have what you do deserve."

(Continued in part two.)


End file.
